So, Peppermint Patty’s peculiar penchant for pissing me off to the full, has poisoned my previous passion for violently letting one slip. Now life’s dull.
But bitterly biting the bloated balloon that is Barbara Bradshaws behind, will only demean what is seen as serene and will never be thought of as kind.
Now all my external internal discerningly simple ideas through my life, are put in my journal, nocturnally, thermally pleased that I don’t have a wife.

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