As is especially The Southern problem: if you butterfly from one padlock to another you'll never have the simple slowmotion time to peer inside the lock and even figure which category it's mechanism falls into.
I never knew just ..how...bad it was.... until.
about what you try and share
well at least it will be authentic.
Which often equals the elegant, in value even if in bimboese.
And CERTAINLY equals that written in show-off-ese, that has NOTHING ever to say about anything, such as as example to one's four kids, " so as to save the prime minister from any associative ricochet, i gobbled a ton of my illict drugs to hide them from the feds, which was the stupidest thing ever ever ever ever to do and as i am so stupid that i couldn't even use that as a salutary lesson in a story, for my kids - telling them just how near i would have been to actual death, amnd whatever YOU do kids don't ever do that! ... in fact you don't really even deserve to have been born, as a lesson to the world i was so rediculously show-off stupid then, as well as being a shit writer who only got jobs as the token junkie, ....never mind normally maturing or someone who has managed to grow up and be an adult rather than regressing to being an even worse kiddult with the most absurd performative laugh that has ever existed...."
Which is also the almost best example of the complete and utter whirwind of nothing ever worth even blowin a fart about that EVERYthing ever that came from London, or Down south, since Mary's mamma died for an actual worthy cause, worth moaning about, and would have actually warranted a slot on BBC Moaning Hour, who (to be cont)
Mary's mother died 11 days after giving birth to her. She was raised by her father, who provided her with a rich informal education, encouraging her to adhere to his own anarchist political theories.
Which is of course what being a real dad is, risky. I mean its possible or even 99.999999%% probable that she won't go and write the best book about prejudice almost ever, age eighteen....even if she couldnt knock up anything as monster-grotesque as Mister Self truth always being weirder than even her finest fiction; so it was at least 99% likely she will have to go and be a scrubber of something or other, when the whole world, especially London salon life, eschews her and derides her and cold shoulders her so she will be guaranteed a place in the poor house...
which one is quite sure all dad's horrid little [errata all is just infantilism mixed with ignorance and all can be grown out of probably not any more mind you)bourgeois girl friends said thought and that's before the vampiric aunts uncles and all the rest...
