Journal HomelessInLaJolla's Journal: 120802 (further) 1
They are the in crowd. Those who buy indulgences and the crowd, the adonis (of various combinations and functionalities including hot shot, projectile weapon, and disease coatings), the eunuch (with similar black widow, hot box, and various attack infirmities), and the modified XY late stage in-town models (XY brain with what appears to be near identical XX covering). Those who buy indulgences have shifted the management of their kingdoms to those who sell indulgences. Your indulgence verbage indicates what style of mummy baby you purcahsed (they keep their mummy babies in veal closets, that's out of code) and is related to a subset of wedding decorations on wedding dresses. Feel free to play this means that seance with your mouse over the proxy internet dog with master servant privelege between the in crowd and those applying for legal marriage certificates.
The snowman is a poor man's funeral. Washing machine, dryer, some kitchen appliance and broomstick. No idea how it really works but I am positive they have it figured out. Not very pretty, makes too much noise, and the casting crew prefers to try newer tricks, but it will work in a hurry if necessary.
Go for the platter. The trail of bread crumbs does not sign, does not have beer, does not include "take, get, earn", and stays away from obvious boxes such as the dumpster areas and trash bins. You're not the full Isaac so the super bowl love boat will probably not be following you. At worst you will likely get a jesus christ gun box or a snowman. That's a huge improvement over facing the walk down the ramp to an experimental development sound stage love boat.
They rationalize that they are able to rub me the wrong way (aggravation) because they go rub their mummy baby the wrong way all night. It's an organ donor. They are the in crowd and the popular ones because all of the little sound blurbs that you love are zechariah under the bell style sound bytes in your media. That and they don't get the grammy in the nose. They claim--by this means that seance with your mouse over the internet proxy dog--that we are all family together. I told them that they were going the wrong way a long time ago. No. Go fuck yourself. Laugh at yourself and walk down that ramp.
They do get the necronomicon. That is the death number icon. The realm of the living is the side of you which needs only air to breathe--your lungs. The realm of the dead is where you accumulate these bumps which pop and snap but you will be lucky to ever see a trace and, if you do, you will rejoice that you are finally able to prove it and people should stop bugging you about it. The death number icon begins with about twenty or thirty of them. Those are the strings which, along with the splatter pattern grammy in the nose, make you eligible to be ridden down by the facts in the various combinations of the platter sequence.
They rationalize not taking mummification two ways. They are facing their conglomerate worst possible combinations of pasts by keeping all of the remainder of the population in their respective veal closets. Some of them have enough money to purchase a mummification after their love boat--it never works because, even if they had their noses and lungs vacuumed out, they never bothered to learn to recalibrate all of their own musculature (which wsa recalibrated out of sequence terribly by the casting crew on the love boat).
Smackin it slappin it smacketey smack (Score:1)
I'm gonna' jack it where the sun always shines.
(He's gonna jack it)
Been spreading the word and now I need to ease my mind
(jackin' it, oh)
Been planting apple seeds, and while the apples grow
I'm gonna go out jackin' it in San Diego.
Jackin' it, jackin' it, jackety-jack
Spankin' it, jackin' it, spankety-smack.
I don't need no shirt no, gonna' take them pants right off.
(he's about to jack it)
On such a bright day, who needs underwear or