In the poetry class, Shirley had presented a piece centering on a diner that served something called the meat-lover's omelet. One of the girls in class giggled because she kept thinking that the poem was about sex. You see, to nymphos, meat translates to cock. The poem was actually about cannibalism.
Later, in fiction, Shirley wrote a story about a woman who killed her family members and turned them into life-sized dolls for a sick tea party. I remember this because one of the characters had an internal monologue describing what it was like to slowly bleed to death in a bath tub.
Suffice to say, Shirley had one gloriously fucked up imagination.
Shirley doesn't write as much as she used to, admitting that her graduating project had damaged her writing mojo. In fact, when I talk to a lot of the English majors beside whom I studied, most of them don't write any more. I never figured out why. Maybe life intervened?
So when I'm having a slow day, I try to remind myself of the college days, the stories that could be written now but just aren't. I try to pick up the load for the others in the gang.