I don’t believe my Minister who baptized me is really dead, I never believed he had Cancer!

Deck the Holly

To be of a hot squishy catcher’s mittens in the Winter With Winston’s to peruse the Purdue chicken in the oven to have it pink in the middle—don’t do that—apparently chicken should always be cooked fully and full, through and through, me quoting Thoreau with scenes of sent’s the insects J.D. Power awards of Car and Driver the magazine, once a Subscriber, I prefer Road and Track with more expansive pagers’ pages of papyrus—now paging Dr. Ross on my telephone machine, the earpiece is clean with the Swiff of a Mopper and a dark plotter, of the Story of Tuesdays with Maury Brooks the wellness/health advocate, and a store near Geneva St. in Worcester Mass when I would walk and write — cardio — and my Published article for The Student Voice at WSU for you to peruse

To be at a hotel, I tell her she’s so short, speaking and squeaking very squack, to distort, she’s so yours truly I adore me, my photo’s on Facebook a dozen or so groups, to them, my viewers pursuers bragging to the umpteth degree of Deodoranting at Raves, Britney sings the “Slave” song on repeat, to do what she do, photos of her south region without undies getting out of a car, maybe a limo, I fill up my ride with Pre-MO to her’s milk dripping on Silk to think, a paper towel to wipe it clean, awaiting the laundry detergent, WWIII is urgent with Russia, causing a fuss, my Americans fellows, #1 world power, we MUST be, like a tip of a Heaven “head” I’ll do it myself instead

With these fucks =P

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