A Devastatingly Bold Account Wherein the Final Word Is Guaranteed to Ignite Contentious, Full-Throated Debate.

I am visibly moved when I see how softly she pronounces my third unknown name and even though her lips are never seen to move, a recording will never lie. As I sit at my abominable desk, surrounded by a chocolatier's bevy of puffs, I struggle to remain in an easy balance of approach and deny, my head swirling with the uncomplicated covenants arrived at by means of lethal force in the springtime of living. As she places her left finger through an abrupt opening in a wanton shell, I take the opportunity to boldly transfix her arrogant scofflaw, only to find him hanging by a whisp in a feathered cave of some note. Not without some significant residue of hidebound distress, I am forced to re-house a team of waning petrified officiants while my most recent tooth extraction comes to mind in a reverie of ironclad dissociation.

By the time I've finished installing her device in my pod, I realize that the voice I once thought I would recognize anywhere is now struggling for completion in barely an inch of palatable liquid near a home of fond repute. As I grasp the lever it's been my honor to possess, I can't seem to shake the impression that whichever course I'm emboldened to  fabricate will take me only so far in the direction of a barely negligent  tussle. In this case, as in no others, the temptation to prevail is outweighed by the ingestion of a juvenile snail I received as a gift from a coterie of intubated Mohicans. We've all dreamed at one time or another of watching the 'red man' learn to sew. And if you're anything like me, you'll get what you asked for, but not in the order that would coincide with each and every one of your picayune expectations. Not to worry; in all likelihood this won't make you grow a third head.

After what seemed like an honor-bound cleague of clock time, I moved with all due haste to engorge her string with my mammouth pump and score the final six points to put us both over the top of the lip of engagement that we find waiting at a precarious angle to life in a pond. I tell her, 'these are my trinklets' and then I ask her, 'do you know the Ambassador?' She falls skyward and I now realize, as if for the first time, that I'm out of money (and cough drops). Now I resolve to shelter in place and await devastation. The luck of the paw is mine. This is how I use it. Prakky. 

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