22/01/2014 - FINGERS HAVE BEEN LOST

'Fingers have been lost for the people's republic of shame. Fingers and toes are factually artistic and deserve gradients of displeasure being hiked their way and wedged on with super effective sticky glue. I have literally nothing against the game being a foot but the practicality is leaving me seven degrees of cold and who really wants to spend time with someone who is shivering anyway? The Norse Mythology Calendar I leant to you that minute ago, I need it and soon as the dawn arrives. e have games to carry on bigotry with or else the entire orbit will be thrown off whack and who  are you to see that through anyway? The babies are screaming for you like a hindrance with pretty girl wings and happiness could do you a world of sugary  trouble without you suddenly realising it. The dears are trying their hardest but the friendship network is crying out for a better art form to incur the critic's displeasure with. The coughing fit is always in order and ready to be dispatched when you're back is finally turned from me and the night time is a yearly bypass. It's hard to think while this glaring contest is going on just an inch above our heads. I don't blame you, of course, unless you want me to do so. I listened to your mind's broadcast, powerful words and weakling phrases that string together to make wet September days. I'm not judging you, of course, not unless you have a prenuptial agreement ready for me to sign and let slip from my wakeful consciousness. I didn't think you had it in you to destroy my capabilities one by one with flame retardant temptation and erasure marks all over the hardware. It's soft and downy and horns waggle when you least expect them. The Scotsman always says and never lies, especially when he's irate as he is today. Thsi day, sorry. Today is a horribly confusing misnomer for he temporally stroppy.  Just dust up your yip skirt and let us get the yip out of here with our yip dignity attached to our brown satchels. The weather is very tasteful and yet dispassionately alien to our eternal drinking contest. You just can't help letting the ghost your four-bedroom apartment with the skyline and everything, it's awfully persuasive when it needs to be. This up here is a mercy.'

From thenceforward, our hero winded down his uppity attitude and displayed thirty acts of kindness to the prettier girls and boys of the village with the promises that he would make them each his squire and assign them important duties that would involve polishing the upper end of his shield. Our hero was a blanket statement, a damp putter in the dark with his twinkly bells in the hellish vice of discography. Our hero will refute all possibility by the time he is done with the village and all the folk there will drag him out, drown him out, dead.