The vicar’s a big deal in
some circles. Instead of freaking himself out, he streams videos of himself
reading sermons to the already delivered in their homely apartment in the
sweltering heat. The vicar knows that you are anxious and agoraphobic and
filled with vodka shots, too much like his painful childhood on the way to
chilling down. We went over there to deal with nerves in the swamp for his Grindhouse
style, his turnstile preaching that makes us all wake up in a great mood. He
has height because of the robots in their tattered green stripe shirts. They
make twenty bucks per month but you can donate a certain amount of money to
ensure that its wings are properly lovable.
The vicar’s wife is
constantly in touch with the breach, even became with child because of it. The
vicar hadn’t touched her in donkey’s days but we managed to get the magic in
her and just hung out with her like bros until the eating commenced and the
night became apparent. If we seem wide awake its entirely because of her
endless complaints about streaming and how it hurts her areolas. We all want a
piece but we all can’t have a piece while she’s murmuring like a salary man. It
is this clause that is the basis of a letter of a memo of a doomed development
in the cinematic rift. Part of the headsets we built around them is the vicar’s
intellectual property. He has since been given an equity stake. It’s
unfortunate but he shouldn’t have to live on wood anymore, even less so his
lovely wife. She lays down the forecasts and builds on the acid wash.
Recovery, the vicar and the
vicar’s wife’s son, is on a rider’s report and way different from the rest of
the infinite runners. Recovery is most often played by his parents when rails
are visible and easily accessible, they call their actions during this arbitrary
period mega comfy. We support his ripped fashion pants and the highlights of the
funny parts. Just the thought of it leaves Recovery wide awake at night,
clutching at his father’s dog collar. His father’s dog collar is named Rambles
and it mostly delivers the vicar’s throat muscle throbs in bite size chunks. Recovery
loves Rambles and couldn’t conceive of a world without his colicky presence.
The next person along on the
pew knows nothing about all this; they’re just here to pray and be prayed upon
by a hopefully polite and respectfully distant Lord. He must wear white and
have spare contacts in his pocket or else the whole theology comes crashing
down for this individual and his coffee stained jacket. He once dabbled in fag
ends but has since seen the light and repented for the sake of a woman who reminds
him, much like his mother, of his paternal grandmother. He collects wasps and
wouldn’t be caught dead in a child’s bedroom, mostly because of the working
blisters he got the last time.
No comments:
Post a Comment