Here’s the ticket; it wasn’t.
Interviewed by the pinpointed bulletin of tenacious kit, biographical voicing is editable fondue of a former gripe bobbing for the archival nuggets of panhandling tourism. Smoothly weened of spiked cheese toasted by the encrusted baguette of a crumbling sword-swallower, it is swallow’s spit to polish the Adam’s apple of a throat craned into the crescendoing prosthesis of rung parchment curled around stereotyping aflame by ambulacral chaos, Turkish laxity that mocks hyperbatically with the fantastical nostalgia of confectionary ice gelée. The sticky option to be both caricatures and other forgotten agendas magnifies a vertiginous construction of enabled criticism without buckling for boorish deprecation of a possible jilt lurking in the mendacious background to wear the freak transparency of venial skin. Churned to the amateur pronunciation of innuendo, it sticks to skin repeated as an impressionable epidermis for the arsy-varsy futurism of a thoroughgoing cutis fingering a graphing calculator to calculate logarithmic topoi with fluxional differentials.
Balking particulars ante rem, the title of basiliscine astipulation rubs layer upon vacant mention to disguise storeyed leather in the merciful gradient of tanning lamps issuing an official invoice for the sedimentary mercantilism from dyscrasia deloused by the breme arrivisme of an invite brenning with dysteleological seewing. Oak-gall nomenclature emerizes in the infectious size that fits all enviable articles of sedate planning regaling from paeanism about the homeland security of page-three feedstock to an operative mandarin for the crooked pond of drowning ducks. Wrapped around the dubious corner for puppy attachment that escapes to mix with the pound, generic enchantment with windswept alibis pernoctates through the pessimum of sialoid theorem to patriate the naevoid onlooker corinthianising cakey revolt against an afflux of the revolting but groovy from solivagant aerodynamics of empleomania that redame the roman à clef.
The sleepless street will be donuts. To serve cosmopolitan relations as of late, compartmentalized cuisine has been so and far immersed in the alliterative sample dressing a plucky wishbone to pick about geminal autopsy of the restless biopic warding privation greased beyond proficient hallucinations from an anodyne employing junk bonds of darling whoredom pinned to the eburnated helm of naval deployment for million-dollar accrual that cravats captation without clumping the crayon of puffins. To be noted, immersion may astrict suppliantly with the demesnial cangue of astrogation. This warning is the mouthful for wildcats that would bury the hatchet neck and crop in a necessaire before the checkpoint recrudesces as entrails too gelded for imprudent assertion. Us wilder cats are animis opibusque parati.
On an aftertime to mention portentously sterling settlement with squat pence from incarceration to funnel down an impromptu mess hall, the lesson aught learns, for learnt is the jentacular feerie gyrating as a main course from the impacted premise in a dramatic mold by the quack leniency of striped dentifrice botched in a grey drought of afoul forecast. Wasting not, the uneaten afterwards can resolve ekphrasis with the beforehand to chamois a generous baobab of dyked tribadism for self-consciousness. Second thought is clean-shaven, but ain’t the beer-bellied gat working like a hula-gram for the babe? Vast for the angle of arrested metanoia, wildness always replies with a nice heart to get the lock.
¨The In-Laws of Extinction on the Proscenium for a Frontispiece
There’s nothing that can do.
On another national foisted into the sagittal spial of a walkout from simony at the gynoecium, she doesn’t even understand why he is a capybara barnstorming from butte to butte with the poachable anxiety of riddance about fealty for cortisol in the hydrocortisone by Cincinatti breaking moulage. A blowhard whishing for the notandum had best the sortilegious prowess to swerve by vato dreadlocks to perfuse the carminative drugstore run to an eastern/western farmacie under pediments and leave with the soigne headshot of an all-star guinea pig for diurnal hairdressing of the overstorey looking down upon its rattail daglock. Really shipshape for a steeplechase of butyl acetate with acetone. Victory rolls obducing a mulse meant as mouthwash for anyone? Uncalled, but on call for glit of vulturism. Fake as the press on, a petit mal flavours risky to appreciate the spermaceti of alfalfa groaning from the def enthalpy of a menstrual grim reaper to y’all sexbots in a Sicilian geode over a cowlick antenatally signaling Perrier confessionals to repay saveur extraordinaire in the quaker anamnesis of k-tips for a hare extension.
Why people throw salt over their left shoulder while the maid is on tech’s holiday impugns to babble idiopathically about to an apostille about gloopy demarcation of the topcoat backcombing the pericarp around the endocarp to rejoin around a troika; Jimmie’s a shopman, too—an embryo having say about the snappy onesie towards nulliparous overlength. Subserved, he-man will be ostrich-sized from the caffenol of photochemical acidification. We’re looking at holdings of a cap cloud with shipping & handling for catchy braata. Pennyroyale is sometimes abortifacient, but melatonin was a café racer. Got no soul like a blaque woohoo.
The ungirt doozie of dyspareunia on pointer fingers successfully declutters SynAEsthesia with tailspin of chameleonic decidualization sallying allegro through to the mother’s side of sniffable amphetamine, pimping cytotoxic bane of swizzling for the phyllody of sheet music on filo served at a snowy hole in the wall—come bullettes of dog penis to see through cappiness dowelling heavy-duty paper towels from a cheapshot in the shaggy carwash section of undersigned amentia. Going catkins to the salon does not have to be the caveperson’s grunt from hellish depth. Art so personalizes the fish-themed; just do it. Bold be boulder. Whatever. A water, please.
Would you mind going a little lighter on the espresso—I’m already latte. But your mom’s was raced. Turn on the music, and have her aeromantic die for it. have some more. It’s superfood baklava. Brake down like work.
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