the abstruse philosophy of the kitchen table weeping cactus plant.

There are so many things that a wanlillithpreyuh could say. Me Grandmother spoke the Old English, you see.

I was settling in to a few quick reads and ponderings (after I finished the last half of HELP!) before my evening's sleep when a chum dropped by. We both study the documentary and we got to chatting about mankind and business and Venezuelan jails. You know, even people in documentary, the occupation of the pauper, can feel like they've sold it all out from inside of them. Their souls, their bellies, their knees.
I like to buy nice things, but I still find my stomach turning over in the atmosphere of much wealth. That's why I told the UK to take back their winnings.
I'm sorry my writings are a bit flighty and disjointed, I've been replaying Beatles quips in my brain and standing over a grill for hours. The brain starts to fizzle.

More PS's:

PS. I've decided family is the only way to go.

PS. Don't ever ask me to cook a steak medium-rare, I can only manage rare, medium, medium well, and well. I somehow always miss medium-rare. And it's all on whim what done-ness you get. But I do a good well. Ha! Squirm you English teachers (Butweloveyoumadly).

(PS. Somebody stop me I'm frazzled!)

PS. The end.