Tonight, the cheerleaders practiced outside at the piers in Chelsea. We were practicing a part of the routine during which I go up in a half-extension; on one particular go-round, my group, thinking that we were only marking the stunt, failed to put it up, while the other two groups succeeded. We had gathered something of a crowd, and one more vocal member of our audience shouted to us, “Why didn’t he go up?” I foolishly attempted to explain that we hadn’t known I was supposed to, but she interrupted me and shouted, “Is he too big to go up?”
I can’t really remember a time when my desire to grow long sharp nails instantly, so as to be able to rake bloody gashes into somebody’s face, has been quite so burning and intense.
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