Lover Justine “Tini Ara” Aragona in a green shirt <3

SoCal to the physical strength utmost perplexed a purple shirt and a short mink mini-skirt to resort upon a Plantation of the US nation on which the most highly-evolved (HI) higher heights of just what may be, maybe the bees knees of an incoming atrocity—keeping hush huggably about Iran’s dealing my shrunken arms and legs to the laden seasoning of the old, cold winter to whine about remaining resolution on a graphic piece of art, my paintings arranged, and withered away winter weather, that, whether it be rain or Jacko Frost,ed, Flakes of snow when I know, the tangible circumstance of wearing days-long weathered and lonely Spanish I at WSU the “pantalones” learned in 7th grade with Latin laticious language to have been taught at Shepherd Hill—of Dudley Delinquents in the Boys Room, unkemptly un-groomed and skipping class, the Dudley boys of Y2K graduation, maybe, there they were without a proclamation—getting baked buns at Clam Bakes and eating the having-had $CAKE when I haven’t raked in cash just yet—unless my many thousands of Bitcoins have sold at $69,044 a piece, $$,$$$,$$$ dot oh oh I think I smell a winner—my mistake to think BitTorrent renamed to “BitCoin” that’s my act of Facebook conferences and getting to know Bruce Fenton, who, he ran for Senator of New Hampshire but lost—oh shit, this Bitcoin I saw in his office on a conference video-chat, he had it at that and I stayed on the phone for an hour or more—him fallen asleep, I could hear him snore, then yelling into the whodunnit phone—of French River COMMUNICATIONS—my Mom’s friend at AT&T brings intimidation as I’m being severely hacked by my enemies, I tried to give them pleasantries, when confined to a hospital bed in 2004 and

I think, I blink, and what’s up with Walter—halted—living in China or some place else, I remember Bruce Fenton’s shelves, and seen a dollar sign Bitcoin sculpture, I have redeemed myself with American “cultures” of stem-cells swimming and the surgeons singing a hum, signing me off on the x-ray of my shattered hip, me being and without a sip of the spilt milk going down the drain, when it needs no refrain, my Intensive Care Unit “severe” TBI and shattered left hip in 7 pieces, oh Lordy, my Jesus of the cross and a pen—when in 2013 or 2014 I invested millions into Bitcoin, Tesla, Amazon, and so many other fantasy Stocks—hard as nuts ’n’ bolts—that soda of yesteryear- do you remember Jolt? the soda when in SoCal I count my carbs and KISS108 for Mrs. Miha “Arbs” and shopping for sportcoats when Paul—the friendly employee here at “Averte” in Bradford, Vermont—he owns horses and the coding is just-enough remorseful of me being where I can laugh at the jerks who made me crash at 64 mph when I used “Nintendo 64” and “Nintendo64” in my Bitchain investing and wearing neck-ties to Saint John’s in my Class of 2000 — my favorite sportcoat was green, and here’s a favorite photo of Justine Aragona to be seen, her in a green shirt and thinner than she’d grown to be, years after taking this lovely photo of her, my Justine Aragona, her moaning seeking Sponge-Bob Square-Pants when foreigners eat bugs and ants, along with plants of parchment I ordered a $315 Mont Blanc pen online—and they won’t give it to me—but here’s Justine “Tini Ara” Aragona in green, and I love her so much:

Since 2016 when of MY overcoming the genetic alcoholism in my Mom, named Deborah Marquis, yeah her shitty family of drunks, a heroin addict who killed himself—after I tried to help him!—and his lesbian sister who her husband, he has breasts and a sex-change, wearing women’s makeup, etc. but I’m straight and I read one of Chuck Palahniuk’s favorite books

I love my Dad’s “Marquis”-side of the family!
Marquis French “Royalty”!

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