An individu'l, prone to corruption As opposed to a state of the people Becomes a criminal of loneliness, And to Chaos of the Senses, a bride. Under these conditions, I spawned a K.
Tissue structure in mummy flesh is real. Plugged into this, with blood, is how we feel: Not some Frankenstein, but a Pavlov's dog, Responsive as nudists in soft meadows. One mind can drive multiple bags of meat.
Este tio lleva sus cojones Como mola porque si que puede. Chango toma nubes de tobacco, Mono lo que pasa'n los pulmones. Come las cabezas de sudacos.
Worse than meaningless, I am destructive; What dogs must track my unrepentant path? What raptor soars at my back, designing? Yet a conscience watches zen-like or gagged. Consciousness. Damning participation.
At the beginning of this, I bought it: having to count on my fingers one to... oops, ten. Now I am a mature woman With flow'r-print house gowns and a dishwasher. I help my husband distribute poison.
They've finally figured out a workaround for the disanimate flesh energy sourcing question. Watch these mummy monarcas process insects caught up in they flying f-suit nets.
[insert video of actual x-ray digestion taking place in the rubbry digestive tract of a mummified pre-historic bird]
It's called "assisted automated bioprocedural response," and from all indications to date, it's worth everything.
The capture and processing of living matter while in flight implementing god-made organs enshrined in Pharmsupply Latex 40, the transformation of waste into a self-lubricatory system for metallic parts as well as a combover for the ozone layer-- this means sustainability, but even more important, perpetual motion.
Dr. Donna Thong has had male snaps permanently installed in the skin of her scrotum and female snaps just above the ass hole to aid in affixing any signs of danger back and away from the front of her sheer Lycra gowns. A complementary procedure, if there ever was one, allows the dick head to dock in the depths of the Douche Ditch, after a little twist, without a hitch. If the troof be known, she has actually completed the surgeries herself with a Stud Appliquekit she purchased on television, the remains of a moldering, widely-darted cowgirl shirt she'd worn in the Ladies' Barrel Competition at the local rodeo so many WD ago, her La-Z-Boy home operating theater (H.O.T.), and an ancient bottle of Percocet-SX. Only problem now is nads have been worked so Heavily into Rut, gravity makes the back of the dress look like the Scene of a Dump. "Why oh why are men such pricks?!" Donna cries. Cradling the phone in her hair as if it were a 900 Number, she spanks herself mercilessly: "Erry tam I try an put on sumthin nahs, the beast juss makes my junk swell laik a Devil's Clit!"
Chang K. Chang Chank Jr. High is a feeder school to Chang K. Chang Chank Junior College. Only way to superseed the "junior" business is to log your first kill. Until then, you are a rookie, pup, know-nothing. The enemies you seek out, identify, target, love, and eliminate must come from among your own ranks. And it's your eager junior classmates that will drop you in a sec if they smell gay sweat. High-participation kills usually stem from gaywads that disrespect the Student Council by not showing up to bloodsac, showing up to bloodsac, removing their branks in a common area, or smoking. Ask a pissy question? You are on open-kill special all week. Hungry grads can make it far: border patrol agent, correctional officer, homeland deathsquad, cop, la pasma, lawn chair and awning resource specialist, homeland airborne deathsquad, la chi-chi, heating and air conditioning repair, or Pharmsupply bitch. Some even make it to Chang K. Chang Chank Senior High, the only institution of senior learning in the chanklands, a military academy with state-of-the-art golf course maintenance laboratory, sports bar training centre and auto shop. Failing that, stake out the Hall of Pissy Whining Complainers right after the homeland airborne deathsquad hotdogs have accidentally dropped another loveturd on some poor flake's hive or chall. These citizens can be easily picked off being so predictably on their knees forced to beg for the lives of their trapped families who must be sworn to silence even with their limbs on fire. With their patriarch wiped out, dead maimed or still-struggling wives and chilluns make warm, rich and powerful comfort vittles for K's.
Let's face it, Braino is bifurcated and like an ass in so many other ways, but it's the only organ that can speak, so it's able to tell me how its feeling unlike the others. And it does. I'm just telling you what it told me:
"I'm tired of being burned. After a time in here, I feel like life has been a scarification process that's not voluntary and leaves its mark over me where I have to sit cradled in bloody bone, which is as insulting, really, as Grab Bars on a Tub. Even though I know I prolly cun't survive in any other varn'mt, and that the source of my grievances comes with the territory, I want you to know that it's painfol; it's so painfol.
"Remember the farm. The immaculacy of her housekeeping juxtaposed with pigs. The bath radiated Lush Rose only Mildly Undermined by Shit. The towels were hard and plush. Always at two, something just murdered outdoors roasting indoors.
"Pretty dirty air balloon over our smokin' queen at the Motel 6.
"I could show you thousands of slides; why do you insist on spending time with others?
"FYI, I may be passing along statements that were originated by a second party and fashioned specifically to sound as though they were my own earnest and spontaneous utterances."
Ted, reporting from The Crack "Weird things happen in The Crack. Perverted things."
Peggy's back arches across the saw-like top beakrails, full and fresh as a fish on a monger's forearm. Points puncture her skin at the tailbone and shoulder blades. More than gravity feels like it's calling her feet and hair to return to the world she's known till now. Cement and soil are drawing her even more strongly than her own existence has ever created sucking for most others. The strength of the Earth's pull on Peggy in this moment is only comparable to the power of the dark beacon with which she calls her own children, a burning siren of their own suffering, for they know she is gone.
In a pants suit, Peggy now suffers: suddenly swiped from her grounding in the Sears parking lot, stars smear past as if the whole planet spun. We can see a purse, shoes, keys, barrettes and shiny coins raining down hard from the jaws of her perp. Its toes are leathry and Dirty Pink against the blacktop. The claws alone are hooptie size. No one else, however, is present. No screaming crowds bear witness to this spectacular and tragic abduction. Security cameras tilt or hang dizzyingly, dead in their grips. Only the crazy orange unblinking lens of Peg's beholder confirms the scene to God. Chang K. Chang Chank Mall has been shut down for weeks.
im really sinking im really sinking in spirit sitting here. im really sinking in despair, all-knowing yet not knowing if you are there. We all used to meet up for a Coconut Rush at Sears after school and then freak- ishly, you grew up, but not before i flew the coop.
ante-capture, with thumb-like flippers, the spinal cord was my tail, and i had to whip it 'round a lot to get through water, so that's why i like saying "no" emphatic'ly shaking my head: it reminds me of being free. If I busted through my skull, a lengthie ten- dril would come out along behind me. That's how you'll know I was successful.
You are 53, so you are cunning and cynical in a last-ditch effort to hump your days and walk on top. Soon your risk taking will give in to begging wonder for life outside d'bed. You have bright eyes and a mustache you call the Womb Broom. In one small town where you stopped they said m -aybe you were a con man but anyone could guess it was juss a chick or boy you moved and disrespected. Don't piss off unions or steaming membranes with an itch for your c -ock. Hot drifter, many may mock; none can hold your p- ower over major regions of the wanting brain, oh, and nex time you wan to stop by, jus come on in; don't even nock.
Serving Christians, yor trajectry brings you wide and on s -ome dire affairs. The churches take you in an cut you job -s at carnivals, car washes, and for burials, loan you a suit. You safe in this town as a fart that smells like food. Erybo- dy thinking ways of how you, as a man, are theirs. Imagin -e wuhda local wife wunt want to stow you in her sk- irt. You've never been a brother on the grid. Some men th -ink that they can find themselves in you, but they are da shed on rocks and ashes worse than wymen. Ashamed of loving you, hot drifter, we offer up r babl verse an wicca. I for one dont play that praying game. You are my sistuh.
iout9p2q83751983ngvo3inuv[03947v6n;oqwprettyieut098pictures34576n[qvuglyo3i9words4vun'qoi3nuy9p2q83751my_decaYcreates_homes_for_otheRcreatures_+WE CAN'T HELP LOVING AND WE CAN'T STOP