The self-same purchase I initiated, just as a favor to my former beloved, turned out, in time, to work to my advantage and enable the showering of balms, albeit at rigidly timed intervals, in a barely visible fleshtone motif, but the readiness just was not there. The expectation of my eventual scolding by those in 'the unit' who have had it in for me, caused your correspondent to now become the flight risk that he was always assumed to be, but now with a full suite of evidentiary factors in play: binding assault charges, a lime green Toyota stolen at dawn, even my name uttered by a dying geriatric nurse's aide in a fugue state of hardly moderate proportions.
This is where it all fails to come together: no bow on top, no light tapping felt inside the left forehead, spit and tone to the non-nuclear Level 5 discussion. The fear is palpable but waning. A new rope and thrust are thus enacted and the plenary mob finds relief in a water music participation award but departs anyway, heads tucked under, knees to the belt and whoever insisted on the basic breakfast option is shit out of luck. And so it goes. But please do not allow this situation to cool your ardor or sink your bastions because, as we've all been told more than once, the game of blamers is merely a valise to stash in an obelisk, metaphorically speaking of course.
And now I give you, Blake Cartwright, the teen heartthrob on the tip of the tongue of a malignant narcissist you'd best avoid. Please attempt to cease trying to stop controlling your involuntary servitude at the drop of a hat, if you know what's in your long term financial self-interest. Bloody vest.
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