gentlemanly
you're not thinking. howling with laughter, bowling them over. overflowing with concubines using cucumbers to stir the brine and stir up trouble, a polluted bubble of frivolous pleasure blowing in the breeze, under the weather. the dark cloud of crows flying above the scene descended to feed upon the carrion. carry on, you vast troubling public. there is nothing more i can do, i can only observe and and string together words at my leisure. i'm not equipped to make decisions or speak publicly. i can end this paragraph. that would be very abrupt of me.
a new paragraph explaining the reasons and reactions of my atypical activities. some were sobbing and wailing on their knees in front of me, but i paid no mind. i was not a witness to their shameful crimes. i was busy scrubbing my bathroom, removing the grime. i'm very methodical that way, i'm an ambivalent infantryman. i make things out of clay. i'm an automaton and a marching mannequin, i can do it, i did. i ate it. i have an ice cream stained bib. my lips are two strips of glowing fat, i recline, relaxed. suited up for the occasion, i distribute scorn evenly amongst the steaming piles of human dung. i'm referring to the individuals to whom i have an allergic reaction. this could clearly never be my scene. i can't walk on the tiles because they're wet and have no traction. i'm so undeniably grotesque and unclean. how can i be changed from a jerk to a yuppie? why would anybody kick their own puppy? the same answer applies to both questions, but nobody knows the correct response. our future failures are governed by a hive of giant wasps that communicate with severe buzzes and savage clicks. out of this world romantic suppurating language and "dancing." it makes me sick.
this rambunctious outfit was laying it on thick. heaving globules of viscous infected honey and phlegm rolling around on tongues, swirling into the water supply. the dirty laundry is hung out to dry like so many neglected children wading in a ditch, scratching an incurable itch for an anarchic reawakening of sensory overload. the skull overflowed with the mud of poisoned thoughts. this will end that drought. no parent can explain the absolute truth in a concrete way. the absolute truth is that someone is gonna pay. the sweetest thing in life is a dish best served cold. the cold shoulder of creamy sweet contempt. i cried tears of joy as i slept. the feeling crept up on me like a tarantula on my back. i could feel such a deep impact on my chain of thoughts, i could feel those shots. the syringes administering the antidote to peace. i'd rather not know relief. i burn with a fury now unleashed in the form of a diary entry. how gentlemanly.
a new paragraph explaining the reasons and reactions of my atypical activities. some were sobbing and wailing on their knees in front of me, but i paid no mind. i was not a witness to their shameful crimes. i was busy scrubbing my bathroom, removing the grime. i'm very methodical that way, i'm an ambivalent infantryman. i make things out of clay. i'm an automaton and a marching mannequin, i can do it, i did. i ate it. i have an ice cream stained bib. my lips are two strips of glowing fat, i recline, relaxed. suited up for the occasion, i distribute scorn evenly amongst the steaming piles of human dung. i'm referring to the individuals to whom i have an allergic reaction. this could clearly never be my scene. i can't walk on the tiles because they're wet and have no traction. i'm so undeniably grotesque and unclean. how can i be changed from a jerk to a yuppie? why would anybody kick their own puppy? the same answer applies to both questions, but nobody knows the correct response. our future failures are governed by a hive of giant wasps that communicate with severe buzzes and savage clicks. out of this world romantic suppurating language and "dancing." it makes me sick.
this rambunctious outfit was laying it on thick. heaving globules of viscous infected honey and phlegm rolling around on tongues, swirling into the water supply. the dirty laundry is hung out to dry like so many neglected children wading in a ditch, scratching an incurable itch for an anarchic reawakening of sensory overload. the skull overflowed with the mud of poisoned thoughts. this will end that drought. no parent can explain the absolute truth in a concrete way. the absolute truth is that someone is gonna pay. the sweetest thing in life is a dish best served cold. the cold shoulder of creamy sweet contempt. i cried tears of joy as i slept. the feeling crept up on me like a tarantula on my back. i could feel such a deep impact on my chain of thoughts, i could feel those shots. the syringes administering the antidote to peace. i'd rather not know relief. i burn with a fury now unleashed in the form of a diary entry. how gentlemanly.