Fucking
went on on the other side. The bacon fat couldn't take the lubrication, it had
no preference outside of gravitational attraction. You always wondered why you
left behind the rope butt buckle that everyone wants to smash into but not very
many people could ever actually achieve. Looking good in clothes is an interior
function of fucking mostly because skinny pictures of perfect beard-trimming
and accidentally amputated tunnel vision. This is a second of all change, this
is an exchange that loops for weeks until you freeze cut like a fish in
Icelandic water. You smelt lovely once long ago because he rubber at the end of
the pencil brought out the colour of your economical irises. Shadow broke the
brick koala mankind has been building since last Tuesday but everything's okay,
it can be sorted back from the checkpoints, stitched back into a whole hash tag.
Mentholated
iguanas that single down the opening of most bracelet outlets thereby channelling
arsehole statuses with Anglicised renown nouns. Become a bratty fisherman with
donkey kicks. Nice dealing, dealers, all you going round and around and
aground, timber. Push some rocks aside for the sake of easy honour, be
underwhelming great friends. Have reaction to your excessive looking be stumped
by riddle rice. Know that my design is a multiplying decision that wraps itself
in hermetic bandages. Double your doublet everyday that comes right back to
George through various tubes and drainpipes. What the hell happens, guardian of
the tantrum? Say all right to well enough with killer humanism and its big
strongman Grace. It's better because they're all on a gradient. I have altered
my doofus into an ignoramus through the kid element of articulation. Try your hardest
to fuck around with fucking and yelling at trooper doom. This is a savour, a
saviour with shutters on either side of his soul patch. Three of them are
coming to the principal's office to let the headmaster know they've changed his
door again.
I
did not call you a germy hour, telling dishwater to clutch on with mathematical
brilliance. This is a chow down with signs of exterior suggestibility. Can you
reach explosion point for Wright and George and their leaking car batteries.
Copycat. Stegosaurus. Waiting. With. Spikes. In. His Hair. It feels like a
massive mash, a corny apple working down the percentages with resultant
contentedness. Wouldn't it be weird to spit goo with total accuracy? Rip that
off your cartoon hound and see what hair gets into the empty socket. That's who
we are, a stopper of the buck and a friendship that fades into a relationship
latency that finds out about OPERATIC AMERICA. This is only a sample of the intermediary
as it tries to go down in lags and glitches. Unite the slow makers, start the
fucking so that we can all just get to the key chains. As of now, the germy
hour begins and that means the alternative of all we know will blink straight
of nowhere. Be very ready.
No comments:
Post a Comment