a mist like small teeth slithering past and all i can do is clutch my new wizard goblets to my chest and walk a little faster in and out of heartburn. happiness is so terrible fulfilling all i want to do is lather up and dash out into another biospheric calamity but alas the 71 won't come by for another hour. i am paid in lemongrass and orange peels for looking this good. finally, a crock pot. numbers are the new sex. won't you come by for some tryst? plastic will never decompose. i am afraid of unwrinkled enjoyment; promise never to unkink my hair.
and this is seattle. i am so happy, legit.
nothing gold, you know?
everything else in enough time.
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