re: How I left clemson and met your mother

They say I write like Hemingway. Fred Hemingway.

She had that glassine skin over Cherokee cheeks. Alone in a truck stop, nervous, scratching her limbs like an addict.

"Can you pass me the mustard"?

Little did I know that this chance encounter would forever change my life, but have a lasting impact on humanity as we know it.

"I'm not your buddy, friend," she said.

"He's not your friend, guy."

"I'm not your guy, buddy."

"He's not your buddy, friend."

"I'm not your friend, guy."

"She replied".

"I've fought many, with this attitude. I recall removing my dentures and arse whooping a national guard wannabee at a waffle house".

She was cold and aloof. The kind of women that excites my groin. The bitterness of a persimmon, the sexuality of fresh calamari....moist, salty.

Participation. That was her life, participation.

She only lived when she was on the edge. The edge. The pinnacle.

"I have been branded", she said. "I have a scar". "I'm not ashamed".

She told me of her past. The illicit economy.

I ordered "smothered/covered and tossed".

She was smitten with my worldliness, the basic tenets. I ordered an orange juice.

It was at this time, my world changed.

In walked a short little man called "Roman".

He says he's a dishwasher down the street ...

A notorious member of the street gang "Dos Tacos".

Cavalier smile, witticism that moistens the undergarments. An Aztec, a Mayan. A slayer of...innocence...