| | I WILL find a way to put these in a book:
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room temperature hamburger meat.
It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.
Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.
Even in his last years, Grandpappy had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.
Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law, Phil. But, unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.
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| | Posted 10/24/2007 11:43 AM - 119 Views - 10 eProps - 6 comments
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