That sisterhood. In that one life. Destroy one another.

Originally formed in 2000 in ?????. Denied on numerous occasions that the name was inspired by ?????. According to ?????, founder of the ?????, early sisterhoods, such as The ????? of the 00s, were founded in ?????, ?????, and ?????, independently. Other sources: claim ????? was originally organized in ????? by ?????. According to another account, ????? was a successor to ?????. Run by the ?????. Abandoned in 2009. Renamed ????? in 2009.

never a week has passed without jimmy calling in at least once a day, parking his car and getting beaten up, used as toilet paper. he comes in for pain twice or thrice a month, otherwise bombards us with needy phone calls, stops by to chitchat, chitchats. three weeks of silence it shall, by thursday, be, the void starting to over-think the tape recorder episode, the fret. hey, i was thinking maybe you were dead. i was busy. are you mad at billie? he repeats my word and he buys a minute. he dissimulates. mad? yeah. you fib. she said she saw you. talking. yeah, yeah. we haven’t seen you for 3 weeks. you worrying? we were thinking it was related to billie seeing you with your recorder. i’ve been busy. you. i've been out of town. so you’re not mad at billie? not a nickel. what were you recording? it's kinda private. spit it out. tell me all. tell me now. it’s a diary. like you’re a poet? it’s called a diarist. you snoop? i record my life. it’s therapeutic. you snoop?

he was driving a matra murena two hours later at the corner of 10th and 16th. brown. he told me his story while driving out to JFK and back. he was a profiler, there was only a dozen profilers, until the mid 90s, until 94 when he was asked to pose as a mechanic to infiltrate a dragster racing club, because he was a "dragster specialist," because at 15 he was able to build and drive his own dragster, because his father was a drag racing pioneer, "a legend." some members of the club were suspected of mass trafficking drugs, shipping drugs through dragster car parts, violating the laws prohibiting manufacture and sale of illegal drugs. before going undercover he dyed his hair blond and grew a mustache and dyed it too. some fbi makeup artist inked a dummy tattoo on his arm with "a flame thrower exhaust design." he bought boots. they parachuted him. he took apart some cars at night, bolts, night, grease, mapped the gang modus operandi, the names, recordings, photos. they were "ready for trial." except for procedural reasons the case was dismissed, and now the traffickers were plotting to kill him. so when an airplane crashed near buffalo, the international airport, killing all the passengers, the fbi decided that jimmy was onboard and died in that crash. they spread the word with bogus articles in newspaper, he got a new name and new documentation with his new identity, he moved upstate new york in the woods until things sorted out, until 4 years later. in the meantime jimmy developed "feelings of inadequacy" and started taking medication. he said he was remembering things that never happened. he still lives on his fbi pension and takes "detective mission" jobs for private clients.

when i told the girls, billie said "how about i ring gag his fucking lying mouth and he tells me how he quit the fbi one more time"

When the paramedics arrived, Damien Hirst's body was "stiff as a board." Rigor mortis had begun, definitely. The yin and the yang? Horseshit.

physical evidence is the only kind of proof, witnesses are unreliable, documents can lie.

they create theories to answer questions to actually screen out the fact that there’s no answer. they can’t stand the tragic nature of reality, the angst, the obvious fact that we’re here for no reason, that there’s no afterworld, that death is the final frontier, that chance owns us, that a big percentage of the population, anywhere, anytime, is evil, stupid, or both, that in billions of years all of this we call the world and its history will be dust engulfed by the sun. things are what they are, get real.