Dear
cheadletime ,
I don't really know how to tell you this, I’m joining the Convent. I think I realized it when I saw the purple monkey in your closet and I saw you pull the pants off of my father. I'm sure you're high enough to understand that your driving sucks. I'm returning the pictures from Vegas to you, but I'll keep your glass eye as a memory. You
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(If I wasn't so stupidly tired I would totally write to you right now. As it is I'm dragging my sorry arse to bed, but thinking of you nonetheless. I'm so happy that you're happy, I really am.)
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But... that icon is mental.
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