The girl was a chubby blonde from the rural zones who spent a lot of time rolling her long velvet breasts above my thigh, happy that she had a girl, just a girl who didn’t care, and she talked to me about her love of Marilyn Manson, even grabbing a booklet of CDs at the end to show me which Marilyns she had.
(Read the rest of Magic Gardens in Death Confetti: Pickers, Punks, and Transit Ghosts in Portland, Oregon, published by Feral House.)
Death Confetti Official Site 