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Half-ton of God Slayer

This false philogynist feels the need to apologize, as for the harlot you’ve been hanging around bores me; but then again, I’m not the one fucking her. Perhaps the heat is causing hallucinations. Rituals of self-doubt require a bit more than just dotting the tees and crossing your eyes. What do I know? I was overly drawn to the one marooned adrift lady heels. Preen to the scene, as her floral skirt always attended the mosh fashionably late and slightly overdressed.

Picture an idea, the one that yearns to be missed; is it impossible to long for what one has never experienced? Predictions and expectations can often appear akin; suppositionally I’ve had my fair share of both. But then came the night God pissed cold rain; and I, baptized in vinegar as she fell just shy of three and a half decades. A debris disposition became as bitter as the pill swallowed; proscribing an entire world and all of its self-righteous preservation. By the same measure, I beseech; mail a post card the day you earn your wings.

Okay killer, victorious as you are; copilots and I; we shall travel the path of least resistance. Endowed with mort-waking engine and thunderbird-like wings, address us horizontally upon our fiberglass corpse. Perhaps there is more to this grease monkey than zippos, balisongs, and an unholy flask vacated by noon. With bohemian nation perched on the sideline, replete in its circle jerk amiss and tattooed bookworms; this convertible continental intends to abscond, rubbernecking credence as it is shrunk by rear-view mirror.

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