That the darkness of her vestibule shone with an inky black puissance was news to her. In the same way that a bicycle theft cohort could count on the rumblings of an overly bloated Ashkenazi anti-thyroid regime, she would seek to smooth the way for a thrice-sold thwarted mitten intrigue disaster to dismay even the most stoic of geriatric carpetbaggers. But for her efforts, they would rule the roost with an almost fatal lack of ironic impalements. If it were up to me—and it isn't—the lengths to which she would go to retrieve the basic necessities of a two-bit dimestore domesticity would barely equal the scope of an atrophied nullity who pretends to shred every last codicil that I've worked my butt off for the last six years to help see the light of a forgotten day at the beach.
And why, one might inquire, would this fail to sap the confidence of a merry band of foreign fighters who even now are negotiating their way into the hearts and minds of our ultimately tainted thought-leaders in the field of random coincidences? Is it because of a concerted effort at reaping a nonmalignant torsion imbroglio while appearing to knock their pleasing endeavors off the living shelf of tubes? To hazard a guess would be, well, hazardous, and this is not something to be recommended in this, the first year of many to come. The way we intend to subtly gesture with our bare ankles, all the while sincerely groping for the proper way to express a love of mature substances, will light the way for the emergence of a new lost paradigm. Please don't count me out. I didn't evade anything.
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