There were horrendous, dramatic, violent quantities of green slime""oodles of it. It covered Howl completely. It draped his head and shoulders in sticky dollops, heaping on his knees and hands, trickling in glops down his legs, and dripping off the stool in sticky strands. It was in oozing ponds and crawling pools over most of the floor. Long fingers of it had crept into the hearth. It smelled vile.
Diana Wynne Jones
In those sticky summer nights in South London our windows stay open and our tiny apartment becomes our secret garden. The magic of the secret garden is that it exists in our imagination. There are no limits, no borderlines. The secret garden leads to the marigolds of Mogadishu and the magnolias of Kingston and when the heat turns us sticky and sweet and unwilling to be claimed by defeat we own the night. We own our bodies. We own our lives.
Whatcha doin', Freak Girl?" --------------------------- "What does it look like, brainiac?" I shot back, even surprising myself with the force of my jab. "I'll give you three guesses. No, wait. Don't strain yourself. Wouldn't want to hurt your head." I waved a flyer in his face, channeling my inner mean girl. "See these? I'm hanging them...on a...wall!" I spoke the last part slowly, as if addressing a dim-witted child. Which wasn't far off the mark, now that I thought about it. "With tape," I added, waving at the dispenser. "You know-sticky, sticky!
Janna knew - Rikki knew - and I knew, too - that becoming Dr Cameron West wouldn't make me feel a damn bit better about myself than I did about being Citizen West. Citizen West, Citizen Kane, Sugar Ray Robinson, Robinson Crusoe, Robinson miso, miso soup, black bean soup, black sticky soup, black sticky me. Yeah. Inside I was still a fetid and festering corpse covered in sticky blackness, still mired in putrid shame and scorching self-hatred. I could write an 86-page essay comparing the features of Borderline Personality Disorder with those of Dissociative Identity Disorder, but I barely knew what day it was, or even what month, never knew where the car was parked when Dusty would come out of the grocery store, couldn't look in the mirror for fear of what-or whom-I'd see. ~ Dr Cameron West describes living with DID whilst studying to be a psychologist.
ALL I WANNA DO IS SMOKING, AND CHOKING BUT AIN'T NOBODY GOT NO GOODS, SO I GOTTA MOVE ON I GOTTA FIND IT REALLY GOOD, GOOD FOR MY LUNGS YEAH, YEAH, YEAH, CAUSE I'M IN NEED FOR THAT STICKY STICKY GREEN AND HAVE MY BLUNT CHECKED, SO THAT NIGGA HAD AN ATTITUDE EXCUSE IF I'M RUDE BUT THAT'S JUST THE WAY THAT THE WEED, DOES YOU DO, OOH THROW YOUR HANDS UP IF YOUR WEEDED, UH HUH THROW YOUR HANDS UP IF YOU NEED IT, COME ON I'M SEARCHING AND I'M SEARCHING AND I STILL AIN'T COME UP WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THIS BEFORE LIL DRE, LET ME HIT'EM ON UP I HIT'EM UP, HE SAID HE'LL COME RIGHT THROUGH HE GOT THE L.A., L.A., I SAID I'LL BE RIGHT THROUGH I FINALLY GOT MY BLUNT, I'M FEELING SO GOOD BUT IT'S SO HARD TO FIND A REAL GOODY GOOD IN MY HOOD
Get your sticky fingers away from my cookies, ' Ben ordered, without turning his head, to see Jaxton trying to steal one from the cooking tray. 'You weren't saying that last night, ' Jaxton retaliated, coming up to Ben's side, to give him a nudge. They were both smiling, while looking down at the counter, where Ben was making his delicious rosemary cookies. 'In fact, I seem to remember you grabbing my sticky fingers and putting them in your mouth, ' he teased, speaking quietly, so that Lyon wouldn't hear them at the other side of the room. Ben turned to Jaxton and abandoned his baking, to catch his face in flour covered hands and plant a deep kiss on his lips. Jaxton opened his mouth, in acceptance of his kiss. ~ From the Heart
My locker seems to have become the hub for sticky notes and nasty letters, none of which I ever see actually being placed on or in my locker. I really don't get what people gain out of doing things like this if they don't even own up to it. Like the note that was stuck to my locker this morning. All it said was, ' Whore.' Really? Where's the creativity in that? They couldn't back it up with an interesting story? Maybe a few details of my indiscretion? If I have to read this shit every day, the least they could do is make it interesting. If I was going to stoop so low as to leave an unfounded note on someone's locker, I'd at least have the courtesy of entertaining whoever reads it in the process. I'd write something interesting like, 'I saw you in bed with my boyfriend last night. I really don't appreciate you getting massage oil on my cucumbers. Whore.' I laugh and it feels odd, laughing out loud at my own thoughts. I look around and no one is left in the hallway but me. Rather than rip the sticky notes off of my locker like I probably should, I take out my pen and make them a little more creative. You're welcome, passersby.