Barricade the new hospital
and you make the chief of surgery into your own personal torture device. She is
a newfound leader with her legs gradually transmitting themselves into dance
data and then something decidedly more psychotropic before the deadly deed is
done and all that’s left are manly, hairless thighs. Why would you even want to
end up being in charge of him/her? His parlour? Her chateau? He is a
bastard/bitch that gets new maybes every time with his running water jokes and
remarks about blind beauty as judgement at a poorly-laid table in the dark of
somebody’s lamplight. Do you agree with our list? Surely you will derelict
yourself with the deed pole and terrify what’s left of yourself with the
possibility of rejoined numbers making themselves into their own brand of
numerology, the kind only sold in select supermarkets thanks to a keen
advertisement strategy. She is now a he and he is a mercenary for them, laying
down firearms right in the path of their fat cat enemies to steal their babies
before the soot’s even lost its sheen. Have a run-up, see what that good does
you and how many product placements you’ll getfollowing it, with you deep voice
and rich hands. Love makes all the Asian tartness blow down the hatchets from
the walls they’ve been embedded in for the sake of Old Lang Syne. The chief of
surgery has a special hat made entirely out of evil castration shears in the
hopes that it’ll scare scum like you away from perfected folk like me, she’s
too much chin hair to realise that the silky smooth skin shall dip apples right
into the carbuncle of my limbless body. It hurts to respect other people and
their wasted flexing, all their wastedflexing while the actor concerned about
the river is selling letters to past relatives for a simmering finder’s fee of
$50%. My offer still stands and that will see you appreciated by all your kindred
for at least a quarter of a month each decade because that’s exactly the kind
of power I presume to wield and assume that I have no limit to, I am that
reckless and it’s paid off really well so far but you’ll no doubt come across
me and tell me to take it all away and share some of it with the chief of
surgery. Well, no, I don’t tax her to be honest so why should she get these
wonderful trinkets? Her bikini zone doesn’t pass my kilter and, as you all
know, I have several superheroes in my pocket, ready for the international
market of saying goodbye to the sleepiest march hare as he dies in a sitting
down position as if he, ironically, just heard about somebody’s death and it
really hit home. You do get glimmers of hope in the white and glass buildings
but the computers still cut your hair, your ‘p’s and ‘q’s short for its
electronic amusement. The chief of surgery even heard it whir.
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