Happy Easter, I don’t believe in Jesus Christ because there have been so many “virgin-births” of “Parthenogenesis” to this very day, nothing special- it turns out!

I’ve written a lot lately, seeking a Slim Shady documentary about me-  and my life filled with an absence of a pulmonary abscess, as if I treat the learned-days for Play with a recess Ping and Pong, among and Along my ♥

I just don’t know what to think, to dream about Justine Ara, who I remain dedicated, to, and too I hope you, see my longing for Tantric- aww heck, I just don’t know what to do, sipping hot off the kettle, coffee (no sugar, no cream) to sitting and cooling down, but Alas don’t worry about my caffeine—no longer in pills—but feeling the lightly laden thrill of Xanax, me having no panic attacks, and not receiving “flack” from the staff or my honey hoes, distinguished sold souls and simple soldiers—diet soda on the Rack, with rivers overflowing, that oh the incredible and incorporated love for my Justine “Tini Ara” hoping to see her here, coming nearer, coming close to be in my arms, left and right, doing her a$$ all night to sunlight-ten in the A.M. to see, God, viewing Him and His universe with who but Allah, who, Allah brought me to God The Creator, The Father of His universe!

I talked to Elon Musk on the phone for 40+ minutes in when, oh 2005!

When whispers sizzle I sip the sweetest little peach, that nothing is beyond my reach—like God and getting beyond Him—at the edge of space, found my place of wishing well to stick with Allah in “heaven/hell” that, the bodily incremental spiritual temptation, wishing well The Nation but of Islam and those who seek peace, kibble for the beastily pat on the back, petting an animal like a EASTER IS HERE! when this all at once, I fear, for the USA and me saying, “Hey calm it down Chinks,” when they eat simple rice and boiled kittens, that the poor felines, I want a cat here at “Averte” in Bradford, Vermont, name it “Mittens” or “Cookies”—because I love cookies!—seeking the chocolate so dark or milky, winky winky, I HAVEN’T HAD A SIP OF WINE OR WHISKY IN ALMOST A FULL DECADE! and thine, yours truly, frowning on the “Trans”-community of “Gender Reassignment” that, well, “Fags!” which has to be said, unable to breed, feeding the feeling of what I need my Justine Aragona—she’s so special because we share the same injuries—her walking straight was effected—lined up and with a hint of a tragic limp—she would burp the sugary soda each night after I got home from MY JOB AT MY MILLIONAIRE FATHER’S GREAT PLASTICS AND POLYMERS INCORPORATED COMPANY—his office and William Blasius I would see, them, at my job-related laptop to flip-and-flop while jotting highlighter on sheets of Data-Entry—in the Company President’s office—yeah my Dad, well, he had a difficult job when starting the company from scratch, an itch to pitch and PINCH AN INCH—that without Cialis I’m getting somewhat even heavier with what the pinch-an-inch of belly laden lard, I called, I called it “19” the covid emailing China and to design a “CORONA” but not beer, that have no fear, as the virus is gone, and not of my writing that’s so so long, so incredibly long at www jeffreymarquis dot com

I also publish on http://alwayschillen.blogspot.com

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