Withered the weather be about what-not, being to play or to plot the much sought-after whatabout wherever to the ut-most highest- the literal and figureative peak of what I speak in text—with so many viewers THANKS—and what a mystery of and for the tick-talk hard as a rock in the stone-crusted Mr. Mustard retard fool, SPED classes in school

My Donna

Madonna

My Aunt Donna

Oh thee who are caring for me so jump in the aire because my shattered left hip now fixed when my walking as of Stride, me feeling the Saint John’s pride, talking betwixt, a kiss on the lips, and I’ve told you about the drilling taken-place—and my left hip—beaming me with whatnot but a request of Allah to take me too, the edge of space, Allah and I tied, I’ve been tried, all the way to the edge—and in a smitten smidge of reaching beyond God, in 2013 that what alive and waking- me not taking any of the awful bullshit here — twice I’ve been hit in the face here at “Averte”— and once pushed down backwards—plus I’ve been assaulted and battered, to the pitter-patter get addled, boat with two paddles, car with 2 pedals, the pediatric doctor—causing the enlengthening of lovingly living longer, suggesting plenty of exercise with working out is hard(er) when running a GNC store, and easier- to do one’s (my own) abilities to increase the intensity on an incline 3% treaded shoes on the fine absorbing beats of earphones, then calling Mom on the phone—come pick me up—I was once hopeless with many hiccups, literally, always imbibing beers constantly with what to be, me a pathetic drunkard, cured with A.A. and FIVE trips to Psych. Wards!

I love my parents!