The bathroom floor shines brighter now that they've done something to it. I wasn't there when it happened; I was tumbling down a hill that was covered in dandelions in Missouri. I hadn't intended to tumble, I was merely using the hill as a go-between on my journey from Arby's to Delaware, the water gap there. There was hair in the air and despair. It was my hair, I found out, and then it didn't seem so bad. I am my hair. A pear was there too, in the grass, with the revolver. In fact, you could say there were two of them: a pair. Scumbling the state line between Kansas and Colorado, I stumbled into Stateline, Nevada. I was too far from Delaware to be happy. I was looking for a bathroom. I would settle for a boardroom. I would be grateful for room and board, unless I got bored. I was still looking for a bathroom. Barnes and Noble was sadly no longer an option. It had disappeared the day I lost my sublimity, which had been merely subliminal anyway all along and therefore not missed by me when gone. Did I tell you about that day? (I think it was a day, but I could be wrong.)
Breakfast just got personal. Till now it had merely been two thin slices of white toast and a bucket of boysenberry sauce. The bucket was merely for show, and my presence at the table was merely a concession to the demands of the extremist group with whom I'd been negotiating. They would not take "pie" for an answer. They would only take 3.14159, which they said they would only take if they could take it for granted. It was a fair trade. No one slept together (in bunk beds, with antique quilts), but the whole affair came off quite nicely, I thought.
a legend in the living room is thinkin' Dixie Bee then the WEEKEND!!! feeling like Jessie Spano on caffeine pills now. is it the weekend yet!? without a phone for awhile feeling particularly OCD, and as a result is sick to her stomach strippin the profile to bare essentials.. i'm keepin this around to keep in touch, i don't want to be marketing data waiting for God to answer one of her prayers procrastinating thinking 3 day weeks are quite nice!!! seriously skeeved out by spencer pratt.... those beady little eyes are spooky.
Wikipedia reports that the popularity of Baked Alaska "has waned in recent years." It's time to bring it back. Now, I've never started a movement before, so I'll need all the help I can get from you, my faithful readers. Let's brainstorm, let's "knock our heads together," let's put our meringue, sponge cake, and ice cream where our mouth is. Let's show them (whoever "they" are) what we're made of. I've never had a Baked Alaska, and I'm worried that my children and my children's children might never get the chance either. That's what will happen if we don't take action...TODAY!
Please leave your suggestions for how we should get this movement started. I can't do it without you. Peace.
As I explained to my mattress on Wednesday last, comeliness entails an inward turn, a retreat into the "deciduous temperate forest" of one's naked psyche. Once enacted, said remedy will confound the so-called "experts" who decry, vehemently, your assertion that you will one day be free of the "shackles of [your] current profession, that of interior design". If anyone's interior needs redesigning, it's theirs, am I right? They're all wrong for that room, or any other.
I should never have offered to finish the job begun by another priest. My hands were wet, and by the time I arrived they were already starting to taste of salt. In less than twelve short hours I would be busted for hoarding barbiturates amidships. At least I was blessed with a backup plan. If cornered, I would call for backup. That was the backup plan.
God knows I never meant to suggest OR imply that geraniums should ever be dumped en masse into vats of boiling linseed oil with the intention of concocting a poison powerful enough to knock the scales off a beginner's piano lesson. Nah! Never did! You can check the transcript, after which I'll be glad to accept your invitation to dine with you (your treat, of course) at Del Mingo's Steakhouse. Never heard of it? It's new, it's down by the harbor. Here, I'll draw you a map. Then, after I draw the map, I'll roll it up and shove it down your ungrateful throat. Now, let's see, where's my Sharpie? If I were a Sharpie, where would I be...?
As for the future engineers of America, I'd say the cards were in their favor, if I were the type to put my faith in cards above my certain knowledge that science and industry make disastrous bedfellows. Nowhere is it written that the sweet smell of success must be relied upon under these circumstances. Before you know it, you'll be the last helmsman in this storied maritime community without a tattoo, and a sad day that'll be, aye.