She Swears She's Telling the Truth.

 

Yes, according to her, she made a 'good faith' effort to sleep, but a mild swelling indicated the ingestion of domestic particles. Anyone who had hoped to school her in a complex rotation gambit, from what little bit we've been able to discover, has been forced to vacate a deepening sense of 'mission creep'. It's not like the others to bandy about unfamiliar names without the will to back it up. I know that certain persons studied the prospects and then decided to give in to an unnatural impulse or two. As ever, I find myself to be thoroughly comfortable with the requirement to remain suspicious, vigilant, relaxed and very subtly pompous. I told her myself not to pretend to be impressed by another candidate's ease with common vulgarity. She looked at me with the wide eyes of someone easily dismissed. I needled her about getting involved in a prematurely senescent industrial sector. By all means, go ahead. I won't be long.

By now, we will have dashed through a sub-lingual Laramie broadcast. There's even a good chance that one of the goons who you've witnessed crashing a not-very-interesting get-together, will be found to have at one time played a 'bad guy' on a little heard podcast back in the late '60s. His name is Virgil Conners. He graduated from the Easton Industrial School in 1993. He went on to take an interest in manufacturing votive emotional atmospheres on a mass scale. From the looks of it, he's wised up considerably from when he used to place damp pieces of felt under people's front doors in the dead of night. No one ever served any time, but that didn't stop my niece from making bold with an occult lighting effect. From the way she looked at him through the window of an all but forgotten pet food emporium, you'd think that she'd once let on that she hadn't, in fact, slammed a car door during an altercation on June 9, 2011 at 6:19 PM outside Kelso's Market, located at 591 DuKane Blvd. in Reno, Nevada 67504.

From the dimensions of the stain which appeared quite mysteriously on the fabric liner of an onyx flavored jewelry cabinet in my Lake Superior bungalow not three weeks ago, anyone still paying attention would have a hard time believing that I prefer to take my time deciding on any given evening's TV viewing schedule. It comes from growing up during the volatile post-3/16 period when all anyone wanted to talk about was a certain ringing sound heard during minor disputes with respect to vague appearance issues in the Nation's sprawling mid-section. I'd usually try to find a neutral vagabond to hold a cup near a hole in a bolstered wall unit while I went around in front to look through people's things as they tried, usually unsuccessfully, to patch things up big time. Once I reserved a place for my dimensionally challenged younger brother in the Fitzsimmons County Junior Fuzzball League, I became unaccountably morose at the prospect of spending the better part of an afternoon out on the Lake instead of taking cover behind a lopsided tree like in the 'old days'. However, this is small comfort when compared to the time I leafed through a briefing booklet in the company of a tanned and fit French Language instructress. And, just so you know, no one is under any illusions about the depth of your involvement in the cancellation of a Movement Therapy Unit at the Extension. Get over it.

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