I am always cheerful, always pleasant. Informal and elegant is the way I like my friends to dress. People who can do both crude and advanced at the same time should be chiseled in between big guys on Mount Rushmore. I am like the Washington Monument when I'm chubby. I'm a glutton for contradictions.
I have my living room closet packed with the least costly office supplies available on both the Internet and the network of dollar stores that I frequent. I have a system in place for purchasing the least costly staple foods available, with an emphasis on maximizing physical prowess. "But why do you have office supplies in the living room?" Someone in the audience is asking. Because I work in the living room. It's not the living room any longer. It's where I go to work each day. I wake up each morning, roll out of bed like a Vietnam prisoner of war and go directly to the keyboard. Would you believe ordinary clerical work is the new pole vault?
The new urban Batman comic in the flesh substitutes fiscal conservatism in extremis for the camp muscle mass popular in the 1960s. They were just beginning to understand latent homosexuality at the time. This just now is damn near 17 years past the expiration date on postmodernism. Modern man should be a Giacometti sculpture with a Porfirio Rubirosa dick. As in bisexual, and I'm not referring to a 10 speed. But for now it is best to limit the little man to insertion in normal grown women. Weenie whacking, solo, is venerated.
So it's been thinking about a young Hispanic woman and her memories. "It" being the smart-alecky homunculus in the jockey shorts. All right I remember her as a young woman. She remembers me as a young man. Of course the media was as active in the 1970s as a lizard on amphetamines, but it hadn't yet turned its attention to the frailties of men. It is been so cruel since the Inquisition, beginning with the Ronald Reagan presidency. Oh, you name your conspiracy, I will bruit the one that is nagging my psyche. Manhood has been under siege like by Gertrude Stein with a pair of poisoned pinking shears. But that does not mean that some where a 55-year-old Spanish woman doesn't smile when remembering a quickie that took place no place special. Back when our skin was olive. The blood was still cherry ice cream.
I have my living room closet packed with the least costly office supplies available on both the Internet and the network of dollar stores that I frequent. I have a system in place for purchasing the least costly staple foods available, with an emphasis on maximizing physical prowess. "But why do you have office supplies in the living room?" Someone in the audience is asking. Because I work in the living room. It's not the living room any longer. It's where I go to work each day. I wake up each morning, roll out of bed like a Vietnam prisoner of war and go directly to the keyboard. Would you believe ordinary clerical work is the new pole vault?
The new urban Batman comic in the flesh substitutes fiscal conservatism in extremis for the camp muscle mass popular in the 1960s. They were just beginning to understand latent homosexuality at the time. This just now is damn near 17 years past the expiration date on postmodernism. Modern man should be a Giacometti sculpture with a Porfirio Rubirosa dick. As in bisexual, and I'm not referring to a 10 speed. But for now it is best to limit the little man to insertion in normal grown women. Weenie whacking, solo, is venerated.
So it's been thinking about a young Hispanic woman and her memories. "It" being the smart-alecky homunculus in the jockey shorts. All right I remember her as a young woman. She remembers me as a young man. Of course the media was as active in the 1970s as a lizard on amphetamines, but it hadn't yet turned its attention to the frailties of men. It is been so cruel since the Inquisition, beginning with the Ronald Reagan presidency. Oh, you name your conspiracy, I will bruit the one that is nagging my psyche. Manhood has been under siege like by Gertrude Stein with a pair of poisoned pinking shears. But that does not mean that some where a 55-year-old Spanish woman doesn't smile when remembering a quickie that took place no place special. Back when our skin was olive. The blood was still cherry ice cream.
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