When full, I don’t like to be touched on the stomach.
When sleeping, I prefer the impossible position: on my belly. Damn nose. Why can’t they make mattresses with holes in them like those massage tables with the padded face rest?
When “making spoons,” as the adorable Maria de Medeiro puts it in the otherwise-not-adorable Pulp Fiction, I like to alternate between being Inside and Outside.
Ah, now I remember the anecdote T told last night. She and her crew were pitching a theatrical musical organization and they told the story of an elder lady of their acquaintance who was quite the grande dame; so they said to her, let’s go visit the internet, and she said, what should I wear?
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