Fat Beached Whale

Write one sentence. Then write another without violating the first one. Continue until complete.


Paradise. Not really. Just a hotel. But those were her choices. Vacation, or a hotel. You can’t have both. Not for the paltry salary he makes. That bum, makes no money. And so they vacation, in the city they live in, a hotel on the beach, the beach they’ve been to a hundred times. But now it’s different, the other side of the fence. She lies at the pool, closes her eyes, imagines: a different life, a better one, Hawaii, no Fiji, and a guy, a guy who knows how to treat a lady, who makes big bucks and drives nice cars, who buys diamonds and houses and even people if he wanted to. A guy who can fuck, who knows what a girl likes, who can move and caress and hold and soothe. Who can fuck your fucking brains out. But most of all, who can do it without getting you pregnant. That’s the dream guy, no pregnancy. But instead, she’s a whale, lying by the pool on a vacation in the city she lives in. Everyone so happy for the fat beached whale, the fat beached whale who’s husband can’t afford a vacation, can’t afford a ring, can’t afford freaking anything except this stupid hotel in this stupid city in their stupid lives where she’ll never be free.

About Gabriel Bruskoff
I make movies! See gabrielbruskoff.com for more information.

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