And Then Things Fall Apart Read Online Free PDF

cousin trapped in a giant mayonnaise jar, I still love mayonnaise. It is one of my favorite things ever. The King of Condiments. Up yours, Ketchup. Esther felt the same way about caviar. I’ve only had the kind of caviar that comes in tiny decorative jars in the pickle aisle of the grocery store, but maybe the expensive stuff is better. Despite my feelings on the matter, Esther is a fool for caviar and spreads it as thickly as peanut butter on anything she can get her hands on.
    In the same way, I could eat mayonnaise like ice cream—and have, at the restaurant. From the giant jar. Just one massive
clean
(I am always Illinois health code compliant)spoonful, and then I screw the lid back on and go back to the phones to take delivery orders. Who would ever know that I do this? And who would care? How many times did I just take a second to feed my need when we were totally swamped, and no one was the freaking wiser? My eating mayo on the sly is not even in the same league as you sleeping with the waitress at your establishment just because you can and because you think no one will ever find out, Dad. Sofa king different, it’s not even funny.
    This is all I have to think about. This and this and THIS. Matt. Baby. Mother. Father. Amanda. Betrayal. Itch. Bell Jar . Restaurant. Baby. Mother. Father. Betrayal. Amandabell. Restaurmatt. Father Jar. Betrayal. Virginity. Baby. Sex. Amanda. Sex. Mother. Itch. Sex. My whole everything is like one big live-action anagram. Or perhaps a sestina, a villanelle, a sonnet with its own peculiar pentameter, rhyming couplets, and grace notes. But what does it mean? Anything to anyone but me?
    7/17
    Dear Matt:
    I am writing, using a “modern business letter format,” to inform you that I am alive and well and, despite our last disagreement, thinking of you.
    My mother has gone to visit her sister in California until further notice. I’m staying with my dad at my grandma’s. See envelope for address.
    I have, much to my chagrin, contracted what my physician has called late onset chicken pox.
    You are welcome to visit. At any time. As I am without e-mail or private phone service, I’m hoping you can also, ahem, write.
    I am, however, on the mend and, when well, look forward to seeing you at your earliest convenience.
    Apologies again for my mysterious absence. So completely not my fault.
    Sincerely yours,
    Keek xoxo

DATE: July 18
MOOD: Incarcerated Rock Star
BODY TEMP: 101
    This morning Gram gave me typing lesson number two: tabbing. It is not as hard as it looks, but it is also a lot harder than you might think. It is sofa king more efficient and accurate than pressing the space bar a million times.
    My roots are showing.
    I have lost about ten pounds.
    Skinny and pockmarked like some kind of
    incarcerated rock star.
    My fingers prance like rabbits on speed over the letters. It’s entirely different from my mom’s Mac with all the crud between the flat little keys. It’s solid with its own mechanical business to do. It uses a ribbon cartridge! There’s a little silver ball with all the letters and characters on it, like a Barbie-size disco ball spinning all my thoughts out and out and out as I can’t stop typing because my fingers are caffeinated bunnies.
    DO YOU UNDERSTAND MY RAPTURE??? THE TYLENOL MUST BE KICKING IN.
    Okay. Ouch. Shifting for that long is kinda hard, actually, but will it

    I think I am actually developing a little muscle on the side of my right wrist from all this TyPiNg . How’s that for fancy?
    I asked Dad to mail my business letter to Matt this morning, and I hope he didn’t just leave it on the dashboard to bleach in the white-hot sun with his take-out menus and receipts. The idea that Matt might actually get my letter, that I can communicate with him without any cyberspace anything, is cheering me the hell up. Today I’m not even that mad at him. No, today I am pooling my rage and anger so I can spend it all on