Weredog Tart (30)

   
   "Weredog Tart (30)"
   
   Lance was freaked; specifically, bad to the bone.  Put on anti-psychotics for his Catholic guilt concerning a link to his dead Dad; plus, summer school hit him with linguistic weird hardcore--he had to read Ulysses in a trinity of days, catch up, and remember the Irish bard who blew away the documenting English and their first class knowledge of it all, but they are wise concerning research on the pineal gland--them Brits know the brain of man.
   Lance was seeing spiders, especially a big, hairy tarantula crawling in his bedroom every morn when he woke.  A feminine entity, offering words, words, words; plus, more words.  And he dived deep into the doom of Leopold Bloom, but she loved him, yes, she loved him.
   Regardless, a misfit and malcontent, Lance had Siria.  Had a female friend taking him to the highest peaks of sublimity--in that she was freaking hot; moreover, a delicious tart, yet not adulterous in any Internet fashion; thus, he embraced her upon greeting urban Pittsburgh and the scent of steel now absent, though resonating with redemption, for futurity holds all the past in its loving hands.
   And what better than a hot girl that was a dog, a paradoxical perfume worn by the Otherworld, and he knew it best to be humbled and entertained by the beauty of creation.