except the metallic weapon replaced by her woody ones...
But the real war, to the deathknell of those fake therapists...
Is if i am 'interested' in someone, null-class; rather classy in her darkie garb....
(i bet it smells, too)... but her lad, mid twenties, she has been told.... yet another lost to their Black Dog...
That can be dangerous as Mrs FAntastic discovered as she was so hilariously flushed by her kids, down the bog
This will indeed be war......so as to rescue just ...or at least ED ferkin ucate err..
After all she lives around the corner
from the famous one who drove em all around that bend
But she thinks lion tamin' impresses me..
Only one kind of nulling is what he needs someone to be
Anyway to get new-phase far far more philosophical, and ruthless....
(" god we really are the chosen mermaid class especially all these underwater lovesongs youve filled my algorithm with now... but stop... i mean we are the luckiest generation ever poor maudlin mid twenty something wont even have in thirty or fourty years .... just that one line in your fave one I'll say it starts at the end... i mean i never dreamed in a million lifetimes i would hear that again and now even see it sung... as 'twas sung then... in our formative and so hormonally filled younger years with or without lions involved.... pure vibes the real kind.... no other generation has had return in such a truly sublime poignant and whackstick around your poor head keeping you far too much in Oracle Tart's actual purity of a perfect frequency lost but refound... ...blahh blahh...."
"However.. there really is NO hope when the radio 4chan play i was sat down to enjoy the other day on a van babe and her nomadly freedom down at the coast....
"no council tax nor water bill
"like Nomadland.... is such a vile self-pity piece...
"and of course she runs out of road when she ..makes herself ..perfomatively ILL!")
Now far to many rather cutsey lil' moments of late to keep up with one or two rewrites.
The best but maybe lost, bouncing on THE JOB:
Now i really get it... a decade back it was all (internally
no oner to speak with even slightly philosophically:
"now i get it their currency, social glue is endless moaning about what's wrong with them.... charity shop, supermarket aisle, even at the petrol pumpsd
i can't take it any more, runa mile!
up the hills away from their endless ills"
But that's all really rather reversed as one slides up that greasy class pole.
Get into the middlin' lot, even if they all of course dream of being pukka upper (middle - the aristos all became the loudest junkies with the most glamorous drug habits nobody really has any empathy for...when they should! Quite randomly several decades back, before she was necktied to death in some pompous lil' prick's sportscar on the hairpin bends of those splendid Voshes.. a random and sweet encounter with one who had been damaged so much by the soulless banker dad - of course was drawn to the equally damaged poor famous junky Master Astor... who i saw at her funeral probably junk-sick, couldnt even shed a tear
to say goodbye to the one who above all was to everyone most dear)
anyway forget all the rest of all figuring and philosophy
As at last i realised 'wellness' is their only social currency.
and ferk me
if you've run out of it....
Because the one really rather fundamental part of life not one can do
Is come to terms with the fact the end comes, to everyone, even you.
But i had it better in first mental draft, i can't quite alchemise back maybe ive lost another recipe
wellness, their meaningless only currency
All currencies any sane mind knows merely imaginary.
etc to be comnnt...a new phase to reset.
