The practice of roosting, in athletic wear, resurges after a twinge of boredom. Before a sudden petrification – with Perez Hilton etched into the fathoms of gluteal resin, viscid romantic botanical bone truncated. Bloody waistcoat. CCTV magnet.
You don't mind if I call my cough an interpersonal skill? I got the chloroform handshake down pat. Poverty has bred a grungy tennis lesson, and herpes is where I drank. Tumor, you're a business meal; X chromosome, you're a squatter. Neanderthal kangaroo, YOU'VE been trapped by the riot police. With sweet words. Written about, at length, in a childish scrawl – like the variform missile fart that plastered the facade of the Center for Disease Control and Prevention.