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Drunken Lust by Alex Wain. Wasted adj. Overcome by the influence of alcohol or drugs.
Visit my official site here Or follow me on Twitter. the night is getting oily by Sandra B. Sasquatch - 29 by Daniel Hager. abre os olhos, guria! pega ele!
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botecamp nob 15 mar - Asterix, Sampa, SP, Brasil. Would you believe I was taking a photo of the Art Museum? Do you see it?
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street queens by subway rat. olympus mju II fuji superia drunk girl by Asa Perchman. one kiss is all i need by subway rat. olympus mju II agfa vista I'd Say Happy 21st Birthday But You Won't Remember by Blick Calle. South Street Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Lucila by Rodrigo Piedra. Addiction: Alcohol by Gregory Cinque. This is a part of my AP Studio Art Concentration and the Concentration is Addictions.
Addiction: Alcohol Model: Caitlyn Cinque About the Addiction: Alcohol is one of the worst addictions, and not only addiction but also a disease. About 21 Message me if you want to be kept up to date with the newest ones or more information and help. DSC by Paul Schafer. oh look, a penny! by subway rat.
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by nastya divo. Shannon Leto Party by Jazmin Million. She unfolded the newspaper and spread it upon this convenient flat surface, then settled in for a good long read, scouring the paper from first page to last. When the Nocturne CD was finished, fifty-one minutes later, Molly had at last achieved a state of true relaxation. She quickly read through a last obituary, glanced without interest at the business insert, and turned the last page over with a sigh of contentment.
It was just about time for her bath. She crumpled the newspaper into a ball and flipped the ironing board back to its upright position.
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Opening the door, she flind as her eardrums were assaulted by the din, then yelled, "Kids! Mommy needs somebody to run up to the store. Who wants a chocolate bar?
Presently an eight-year-old boy with a runny nose approad the room. Molly held the door open only half an inch, and pushed a twenty-dollar bill through the crack. Ask the girls if we need milk or bread, and get it if they tell you to. And you can have a chocolate bar or a bag of chips.
And Benny, eat the chips on the way home, so the bigger kids don't take them away from you. That's a good boy. Molly was a kind mother in her own way.
Although her children had not seen her for five years, except as an overcoat and kerchief rushing from bathroom to car every morning and from car back to bathroom every evening, she loved and rished them, and was proud of them.
But she needed her baths. She needed this time to herself; she needed to pamper herself. Molly put the plug into the drain and turned on the hot water. While she waited for the tub to fill, she looked at herself in the mirror. It was sad, she thought as she examined her reflection, how her body suffered from the long day at work.
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The huge rolls of skin had shrivelled due to dehydration until deep wrinkles and folds formed, running vertically along her body. One such wrinkle had formed so deeply on her st that her left breast had actually been swallowed up between the folds of skin. Only a strict regimen of bathing, in warm salty water, for at least twelve hours a day, would allow her body to absorb enough moisture to bring back the robust, smooth surface of the skin. The doctors did not approve, they stood there in their examining rooms with the silly, shocked expressions on their faces, blustering nonsense about healthy eating habits and the dangers of hyperobesity, but they did not understand.
It was clear that they could never understand; clear in the way they squeezed the precious water from her arms, clear from the way they insisted she see a specialist. No, she had given up on doctors years ago.
Opening the cabinet under the sink, Molly chose from among the cases of bath cubes, bath oil beads, bottles of bubble bath and bath salts. For tonight, a dozen beads of mandarin orange would do, and a cube of lavender.
Then a cup and a half no, two cups of mint-scented sea salt. There was enough hot water now; she turned on the cold. She went to the door and, opening it a crack, yelled, "Lillian! Come here. Minutes later, when Molly had tested the water and found the temperature to her liking, there was a knock at the door. When she opened it and peeped through the crack, she saw a plate lying on the floor, with a mound of macaroni, a pool of beans in tomato sauce, and a pile of miniature egg rolls.
Beside the plate were the two packages of cigarettes. Making sure nobody could see, she pushed the door wider open, grabbed the plate and cigarettes, and closed and locked the door. She climbed into the bath with a sigh of relief, and devoured the food hungrily.
Molly lay in the bathtub for hours, occasionally rolling over to immerse a different part of her body. When the water cooled down she would use her feet to turn on the hot water tap, until the temperature was pleasant once more.
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She listened to Mozart, Vivaldi, the Temptations; she turned on the television and watd the game show channel, her favourite. And while she lay in the tub, something wonderful happened.
Molly's body began to grow. The wrinkles and craters slowly disappeared as her skin soaked up the life-giving water. The rolls and folds expanded and swelled, as when one puffs air into a wrinkled air mattress, until her skin inflated to its full capacity, and by this time Molly had grown so large that her buttocks, calves and feet completely filled the bathtub. Refreshed and reassured, Molly slept.
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Outside the room childish wars were fought, insincere treaties agreed to, then broken, messes were made, expeditions were laund, and Molly snoozed on. A little girl of about seven years stayed up all night, doing load after load of laundry on the orders of an older sister, occasionally lapsing into temporary unconsciousness, slumped like a rag-doll in a smelly laundry basket, only to be awoken by the buzz of the washer or the ding of the dryer and, gummy-eyed, replace clean with dirty or dry with wet.
The noise of juvenile activity diminished but never stopped and at seven in the morning, some grumpy teenaged girls began to make the family breakfast.
After a heated discussion as to what would be an appropriate meal, they began to make a large batch of french fries. The lobster pot was placed on the stove and a pair of little boys were rousted from their beds and set to work peeling and slicing potatoes. Soon the oil was subtly boiling, and plates of french fries were passed to the far corners of the house, where tousled children crawled from various nooks and crannies to devour them.
But the making of deep-fried vegetable products has its hazards. A handful of raw potato was hurled too boisterously into the lobster pot, a dollop of oil splashed out, and soon the stovetop was in flames.
With a lightning-quick assessment of the situation, a teenaged boy grabbed a tea towel and began to swat at the fire. The tea towel was joined by a soiled apron, wielded by another pair of eager hands and, amazingly, the flames were soon extinguished.
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But the tea towel was now on fire. With a gasp of mixed surprise and pain, the boy tossed the tea towel toward the back door.
It landed on the patch of spilled garbage, and soon this mess, tricycle tracks and all, was alight and burning merrily. The mishap had been promoted to a disaster; it was now beyond the scope of the children to deal with it, and they began to run around in a panic.
Some of them ran outside to safety but, confused, ran back inside. Their sharpness of mind, normally well-honed due to too much independance, lost its gleam and they ran around in circles, willy-nilly, occasionally bumping into one another.
All, that is, except Donny. The youngest at five and a half, perhaps he was too small to realize the danger of the predicament. He did not panic. He mard determinedly along the hallway to the bathroom, pounded on the door and shouted, "Mommy!
The kitn's on fire!
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Molly did not hear him at first. She mumbled in her sleep and tried to roll over, but was too tightly wedged in the tub to move. Her right arm flopped against the edge of the tub and knocked the ashtray to the floor.
The sound of the ashtray breaking woke her and, blinking wearily, she heard Donny thumping on the door, and slowly perceived what the small, muffled voice was saying.
Kitn on fire. Molly snapped awake and sprang into immediate action. She tried to get up, realized she was stuck, and pushed downward on the edges of the tub. Her buttocks emerged with the sound of two champagne corks popping, and she was free. Leaping to her feet, she rushed to the door and unhooked it.
As the door swung open, Molly saw Donny rush crying into a nearby bedroom. Her sudden emergence had frightened him.
The next thing she saw was smoke, filling the top half of the hallway. At this point Molly began to scream blood-curdling war cries. She sprinted along the hallway towards the kitn, thinking nothing about danger to herself, driven only by the need to protect her children. The run along the hallway happened as if in a dream.
It seemed to take forever to get there, as if time had slowed. Molly's feet crushed toys that lay in the hall. The telephone table got in her way and was reduced to splinters. As she rounded the corner, still whooping, her knee banged into the wall and took out a chunk of plaster the size of a watermelon. When the children saw her coming they shrieked in terror and ran wildly to get out of her way.
And wherever Molly toud, she left behind a splash of water. Deep puddles showed where her feet struck the floor. In the cavity in the wall where her knee had gone through the plaster, a splash of water penetrated the worn insulation of some wiring and, with a flash, the ceiling light in the hallway went out.
Simultaneously six radios, two stereos, three televisions, and both washer and dryer fell silent. All that was left was the unfamiliar morning light from outside and the splashing sound of Molly's feet landing on the faded hall carpet, punctuated by her hysterical screeching. She skidded to a halt at the end of the hallway, where she could see through the open doorway into the kitn. For a moment there was silence, except for the quiet crackling of the fire. The children, shocked motionless by the appearance of Molly, huge, naked, and bloated with moisture to the point of bursting, stood there with their mouths hanging open, staring at her, unable to believe their eyes.
Molly gazed with horror at the pile of burning garbage, and her eyes roamed about the room, searching for something with which to smother the flames, but towels and tablecloth had already been burnt in futile attempts to put out the fire. There was no fire extinguisher.
Desperate, Molly ran across the room, whooping and crying, and threw herself bodily upon the flames. The children gd in anguish as they watd their mother roll on the burning trash. As Molly's flesh pressed against the fire, water poured from her skin like from a soaked sponge, putting out the flames. A great cloud of steam rose into the air, temporarily blocking the children's view of the terrible scene.
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As Molly fought the fire, still screaming like a banshee, she realized the power of her bloated body, and began to stamp and crush at stubborn pats with her forearms, her calves, her breasts. For a few moments she worried, feeling a rapid depletion of the precious moisture, built up over so many hours of careful attention, but her efforts won out in the end. Using her buttocks to squish out a last patch of burning rubbish, she then sat and slowly caught her breath, as the steam began to disperse.
The fire out, her panic gone, she finally stopped shrieking and took stock of her surroundings.