Fallen followers of The Following to be on Twitter or MSNBC, ever so joyously, and I to the me, appreciating you all reading what you see, on-screen and staying ever so loyally, to I to the me, Jeffrey R. Marquis of be-ing number FOUR-TY many years old, with the withstanding of jubilantly prancing, WSU Lancers to LIVESTRONG, my brain bare and bearing (John Deere stocks) the slinky silk shirts—ripped—me at a good healthy weight with what a hot dog dinner tonight—I had pizza instead—of the Pepperoni Pa-Pa animosity at these TWO GIRLS HAVING HAD ABORTIONS/BABIES, being with my stolen “seed” of Tantric Nations, the manual insemination of with what syringe to squirt-  I know I’m being so ever so always me, screwed with and badly, to my enemies’ fantasies of what but them so shitty to me, I know you don’t see, on-screen, with Google and Apple—I was forced to sign papers giving up my rights—I sleep soundly at night and during the day when—HEY—I’ve got you where I want you, toodle-loo, waiting for a NUCLEAR SNAFOO!

When I like the food here but hate the many of my grains and sands over over-ocean lands, like Israel who our U.S. Nation has as an Ally, I sigh, I signed so many papers, wrappers over lanterns of Derek Langlois—his wife Anna Vo, I hope they get directed to be inspected- the papers of a tragic divorce, but Anna Vo never said, “Derek, that hurts… when you but put it there that my insides need recovery and Care!”

And lungs to lug a wrench of a what Sculptor and Captcha for online payments, see the need to type the cheesy “Strings” of what scinges sings albeit without Pals Playing with MyPillows the male or female, the Mail-Carrier brings, that, a lass, showing random.org numb3rs down the drain, needing to be updated- and Derek and Dana and Daniel, they have mated with what wondrous wives—all but one, White, that the morning, the afternoon, and once at night before bed when all has been said, to plant the MMJ seeds, in Charlton, MA—my home—but they never grew plentiful planted gardenside of Dana Gardner he is ignore-ing me, ever so patiently, awaiting a voicemail from me the boy/man I tilt my stance with a gripping right hand, to the overcast seasoning, whether withering or abhoring, I find this keys-stroking to be joyous huh? the CAPS of my pecking so addled-

Are you ready to take the Military Saddle? I speak a little Espanol from http://www.BABBLE.com I wanted to continue, but my parents perusing my craving language—it was encouraged—by Professor Robert Walker to bring on the best poetry and prose, that the bi-lingual advantage I’ve even taking classes “Spanish I” when I met Samantha, of attraction supremely lingering still—her on Facebook in 2005/2006 I got my thrills of seeing her hottie body in Cheerleading at Woo State of her the teeniest and tiniest “Flyer” — introducing myself after class, I couldn’t deny her potent character and snarky sharkiest buns to be thrown high up in that hair of hers—she’s beautiful and maybe still married to Nickles that the slim-shady her I want to tickle her belly so petite—this Mantha—my greatest treat—ever since Nicole Loader in first grade and through Junior High, of her, slutting it up, a burp and a pup, Rip, my leeway to the dismay of drains drizzled and T. dizzy delicious, that, T., unseen in court—where I had to be, and to “Appear” as amorous as can be, when the Judge said to me, T. dizzy didn’t show, up for court, that was a threat to me, she had to resort, after obliterating her “Google” I haven’t showed my lean and mean, my Schween—having had the three or four “COCK SHOTS” on my watch left hand, wrist, I mean to be First FIDDLED and a FISTED foolish little but huge crevice, that, I, I was enthused to drink Ensure with the more protein, “Plus” I would drink a chocolate flavored amino-acids slurp of sudsy but bubbled when SHAKEN (cracking a neck) to stir up the juice that swishes, my muscular wishes, with none but what weights, at a gym I DON’T BELONG TO A GYM OR DRIVE A CAR here in Vermont that’s very far, to be from my “Health-Proxy” Mom and Dad, scared scarred and marred but MARRIED with the buns in the over-done oven, me and my brother, Justin, to the Marquis—when, the this while WHEN, he ignores me and snorts dust from a hollow pen, that I ordered a $315 Mont Blanc PEN = $314.99 = and un-delivered, not delivered to me, that a fine writing piece a pointed smidgen of ink—my dishes are in the…

sink of pink, when what stinks is this, oh so how I think glitz ‘n’ glamour of I, Jeffrey Marquis, being so ENAMORED!