richardtontslump
Shocked to be so absorbed, pleasantly claply and all full of vim. Mister Tan was all of these and more as the stringent vernacular of his contemporaries slammed into him full force, full of force and vigor. Indeed.
Do you remember when I used to be able to write things? Ahh. Neither can I. I am all become disfigured with the writing parts, and I seem unable to discover why. Is it something that effects? Or perhaps a mere problem. I struggle and struggle.
The collapse of all things is somehow desirable. Sometimes. Some would say. I'm not proposing this as a reasonable proposition, but it feels right somehow. You understand? Probably not. Not many want to admit it, but I feel like this desire is something inherent in all of us.
Can one find peace in their own mind? I have sought to answer this, but the journey has been a never-ending spiral stairway into despair. Thoughts rage and tremble, and I am but helpless.
I don't know what to do with my sorry values. I try to be a good person, I try to be a contributor to society, but all anyone ever says to me is "Ack! A fart!" What do I do? Are my values wrong? Do I treasure that which is bad to others, and thus of poor value? I don't know.
O Chubby, thou cold mistress. Thou, who watcheth so upon thy roost of bitter bite, thou who so sheddeth nary a pound 'pon thy frigid form. O Chubby, thou cruel yet fertile mistress.
Whilst seated beneath the giant bonsai tree I sampled a platter of unripe cheeses. The cheeses created an atmosphere that I can describe only as unpleasant, and to this day I feel fairly strongly about expressing my disgruntlement.
The chocolate clock is a clock steeped in great mystery. Very great mystery indeed. And though it is the third clock of its kind, many who witness its power swear by its very great mystery indeed. The mighty third chocolate clock brings great mystery and chocolate to all who take the time to behold its mystery. Chocolate clock.
Auto insurance to be secure is not a novel concept, it is merely a pleasure enjoyed by the privileged few. The graceful and secure, those with money to burn and possessions to protect. Myself? I abstain, and condemn those who indulge as prevaricators of the basest variety. Such is the truth of my butt.
One bubble, and a flat one at that. How ever does a bubble become flat, anyway? Reasonable, I suppose, to attempt to disect this issue -- after all, how does one approach life if one cannot study the bubbles? The bubbles that make us who we are?
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