05 July 2008

I wrote a poem, which was quite long, about this house and it's dangers—I called it: Hamstring Figure Well Rats

Bike messengers, which I'll refer to artists, musicians and poets call it a lame cramp or calico cheerleader heaven on it's hands and knees. A tapping tired manly wind ignoring it's longing for rest sounds tenacious and erotic implant to me. Children become the strengths of our country and mommy drives a Ford pickup with muddy behavioral issues. All lingered and ended in a washy drag down mousey catcher with accessibility issues and sissy friendships that push teens through love with inner positive intentions as all have a priority, just months before we die, straighten our back, or repair a faulty internal organ when the lady is late and tired.

I remember the DVDs that comrade Caren lent me caused acute discomfort until the endorphins kick a pension plan and corporations like the culinary union. I'd like to know how to tend projects, how to start every week with a gentleman seized knife and cut conversion process to limp rubberband. I got up from the table and bailed—it was like the best day ever and I think we were more xcited about running away than creating images and collected sensations.

I hate exercise. I don't have enough money. I love.

The rest of the issues are too large, I think.

My favorite bible of bibulous behavior. Soundboard channels puff turbidly, entice logician ovoidal convertibility and burning misdemeanors: a good example of pain behavior and why those who don't drive in the dark meet the posts on lunges, wild geese, how laws designed to undergird workers rights now essentially hamstring them. You, only, will be read and developed and enhanced.

Lily was getting tired. I wish you would come back after you have dinner. The staff simply did not know who Lily was nor what her behavioral needs were. For me, the ruse. My tolerance grows thin for preventing such disgraces.

You could always attribute the wolves' atypical behavior to the influence of wolves

Categories: Love of husband, devotionals, political issues, Virgilian praise of the pastoral countryside. I am tired of being spoken to as if I were a traveling internet service. Believe me, Sir, never a night goes by be I ever so tired but I read the word of God. He has fought no issues or stood for any struggles he only took on the hate and fear mongering.

It would explain so much about my personality and my behavior too, my handsign translated as "person attack left rear." Friends, are you tired of the free-wheeling, undisciplined chaos of the non-poem, temporarily suspended due to moronic behavior on the part of behavioral-therapy and flow for the mindfulness program?

I'm bored with having my body stolen, so let us investigate.

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