manbitesdog66: you are cancer?
manbitesdog66: you are a lung cancer?
manbitesdog66: ci?
manbitesdog66: eh?
manbitesdog66: brain tumour
manbitesdog66: eh?
manbitesdog66: lung cancer?
manbitesdog66: ci?
EvilCoffeeChick: No. Who in hell are you, and why must you pester me with stupid questions while I'm working?
manbitesdog66: what do you even do at work?
EvilCoffeeChick: What I do doesn't involve talking to you and answering stupid questions about whether or not I'm the living embodiment of a certain form of cancer.
manbitesdog66: m
manbitesdog66: you are a lung cancer?
manbitesdog66: eh?
manbitesdog66: ci?
manbitesdog66: a lung cancer?
manbitesdog66: can you block me?
manbitesdog66: I don't know how to delete people
manbitesdog66: I want to delete you
EvilCoffeeChick: Well then, that's your fault for being an idiot, isn't it?
manbitesdog66: obviously not
manbitesdog66: Mr. Head awakened to discover that the room was full of moonlight. Hesat up and stared at the floor boards the color of silver and then at the ticking onhis pillow, which might have been brocade, and after a second, he saw half of themoon five feet away in his shaving mirror, paused as if it were waiting for hispermission to enter. It rolled forward and cast a dignifying light on everything. Thestraight chair against the wall looked stiff and attentive as if it were awaiting anorder and Mr. Head's trousers, hanging to the back of it, had an almost noble air,like the garment some great man had just flung to his servant; but the face on themoon was a grave one. It gazed across the room and out the window where itfloated over the horse stall and appeared to contemplate itself with the look of ayoung man who sees his old age before him. Mr. Head could have said to it that age was a choice ble
EvilCoffeeChick: And, since I can block you, I will. Bye bye, little retard.
manbitesdog66: Old Dudley folded into the chair he was gradually molding to his own shape and looked out the window fifteen feet away into another window framed by blackened red brick. He was waiting for the geranium. They put it out every morning about ten and they took it in at five-thirty. Mrs. Carson back home had a geranium in her window. There were plenty of geraniums at home, better-looking geraniums. Ours are sho nuff geraniums, Old Dudley thought, not any er this pale pink business with green, paper bows. The geranium they would put in the window reminded him of the Grisby boy at home who had polio and had to be wheeled out every morning and left in the sun to blink. Lutisha could have taken that geranium and stuck it in the ground and had something worth looking at in a few weeks.
EvilCoffeeChick: Don't ever bother me in any of my groups, or any of my messageboards again.
manbitesdog66: Rosa found him rolled over in the mud down by the gully. She started. The wash basket fell off her head and six white shirts-washed, pressed, and folded-flapped face-down in the mud. One of them was in reach of his hand, a rigid, immobile hand, strangely white against the soft red clay it lay in. She felt like sinking into the clay herself. It had taken her all afternoon to iron them shirts. She picked them up except the one that almost touched him. She fished that up with a stick and drop ped it into the basket. Then she looked at him again. He seemed almost to have been pressed down in the clay, his thin body and outstretched arms forming a weird white cross in relief on the red. Light-colored trousers clung to his wet body and Rosa notic ed that a thin coating of ice had begun to form around his arms and back.
He had on no coat.
That's when I fuckin' ignored him.