I buy flowers for my Followers (they’re low-BROW-zing lol)

Full cadence on the candid veracity of mine on oh mine, now you’ll see, the arched shedding of MATTRESSES (FB: Hannah House) at best for the whim of a sick man stashing pearls (whimsical word is bond) this waiting game, me Go lights green—like Ember’s “Glo-Worm” I gave her and to be a lifesaver on a Baywatch (Movado) Bimbo—her implants like Flotation devices—of course Pam pictured in pictorials the deplorables would get their male-P.O. Box magazines each month, and at gas stations back in the day, I’d say hey I can’t wait until who but Charlie Sheen would umm bang these stitches, something something “Tiger blood”—Tiger Woods—Trying to be, like Brad Pitt, his body morphed unto me, lacking much muscle and stinking straight-down SHRINKING with my old age, again, the Insulin pins of protein-peptides (2005, 2006, 2007) of becoming stronger and TaLLer with injectionable and questionable questioning, “Is growing in size possible with a doctor, not messing with GHRP-6 ($200 product thrown away by my parents), CJC-1295, IGF-1 LR3, Hexarelin, etc. like Melanotan II, when I was “The Man” with big arms compared to my hands, gripping given to the givers at AR-R.COM with Human Chorionic Gonadotropin my name, pinned with pricks, the IGF-1 LR3 flown on over international waters from South Korea—that was a greedy year for me pointing to Purchase on Amazon its dot-com great with free shipping, but speaking of ships, not the State Head Injury Program—I met Peter Sargent there and he’s a great guy like Colonel Booth and James Earl Jones’ing watching “Dream”-sy fields of their Dreams Come True- of my “JMRQ HEAVY INDUSTRIES” people hopefully supporting me while I sift and sway, away, “Dreaming” of course, with her moussed hair and V-spot bare with what wax applied, sugary sweet—me missing Justine MY OWN TREAT, sticking loyal to HER, no “threats” to anyone under the God Given Sun—and I—raising waters, I sigh, when this the “Climate” of nothing changed but my outlook and my #1 goal YES, MY PROMISE… to write a full novel with thee subject, “Traumatic Brain Injury Recovery” #1 bookshelves of these DREAMS coming clean as to the jokes from decades ago, fake events, real people, enticing me when I would write about ME AND PURELY FICTIONAL EVENTS, that was for “Hey Delilah” and hey Debbie, I want to take a teacher, Mr. Deedy through “the ropes” when I SWEAR I won’t associate with him at his new school—Saint Peter-Marian—I have absolutely no interest in befriending that old fag, homosexual, and molester of me, when I chose to see the highs of CHEMS—once after school he scored with me handing him some large amount of dollars—though I didn’t reach “Honors” classes—for drugs he’d do, and me telling him I wouldn’t get at addled—I didn’t get addicted to anything in High School, that not until 2003 I would drink light beer and my parents jeered my bad habit of occasionally inhaling the smoke of a blunted blinger—Selena Gomez and Miley Cyrus—beautiful singers of long songs peppered painted playing notes for my aural cavities to bring their CD’s in a store being purchased—I didn’t download too many songs post-TBI, I’d buy them at FYE! because SiriusXM wouldn’t reach my home with Mom and Dad. lol “Momand” give me your hand I’ll gently place prose of Mohammed in The Qur’an—I find peace in The Qur’an—it says Jesus is a “Prophet” and Allah is Allah, a God to some, but what about “The Father, The Creator of His universe” ?????

What ways?

Do they come in waves?

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