She is a fat cow
Shit, shit, bugger, bugger, F (ok, so it’s wimpy Tourette’s)
like Medusa–shields up!
Pitiful like a squirrel twitching on the road
Empathy is like a rubber band–if you stretch it too far, it breaks and snaps you in the face
Children are grenades. You can snuggle them all you want, but eventually they are going to blow up in your face and leave you covered in shrapnel.
She climbed into her two-seater like a Black Widow who has just eaten her mate and found him a little bitter.
She plotted like Stephen King, but with more gore.
She left more dead on the battlefield than Napoleon in Russia.
Her reaction was like that of small dog who has been stepped on one too many times by the visiting grandchild. She reached out and, with all the power in her tiny teeth, grabbed for flesh. The taste of blood, once flowing in her mouth, was something she would dream of as she dreamed in her bed many a night.
She wished she were the kind of trash her son had married; the kind who would grab onoe of her fifteen earrings, rip it out of her ear and start swinging. Instead she was the kind who imagined the scene played out like a nineteenth-century costume drama. Everything was more interesting in an empire waistline.
Along those lines….
She felt like Jane Bennet when she realized the true natures of the Bingley sisters. But she was not as kind and forgiving as Jane.
There’s not room for two of us in this town. (Saunter, touch the holster) Pistols at dawn.
Cunniving bitch (it’s a word. Check Urban Dictionary)
She felt like a pair of Manolos discovered by two fashionistas in Filene’s Basement. She was quite sure she would lose a heel before it was all over.
She felt like someone who thought they were a master speller, but who just heard that the Homecoming queen was going to represent the town at the national spelling bee because she had a sash and people expected to see her on stage.
Time stretched out before her like a roll of toilet paper, crisp and white, but all too soon to be soiled. It was just the nature of things.
She would have been much better to cry quietly in her room like a good girl, put on a brave face and march to the tune that was playing. But they were playing a march from Sousa when she really wanted to dance to Ke$ha.
She was like the girl in bows at the birthday party who sits before a table of gifts, but can’t stop worrying at the scab on her knee from the betrayal of her beloved ribbon-festooned bike three days ago. It rankled and the scab would not let her forget.
Writing is like taking exlax.