Not to be challenged on the idea of Homer or physics or the melting point of sugar, we'll squeeze all these migraines into one giant muffin tin and collapse at two-hundred fifty degrees.
After singing some made up children's song and trying to understand SpaceGhostPurrp before being asked why things are studded with broken glass, like fences and gate posts, I levitated into the kitchen and broke open a stale box of pecan brittle, only to be disgusted by the lack of peanuts.
When all things finally do pass, the storage bill will be immense and all our problems, like hardened packets of sugar-substitute, will be sent to the sun to party one last time.
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7.13.11
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