where are you? we've been waiting for hours. im getting sick of this consistent tardiness on your part. if you arent here in the next 10 minutes you can say goodbye to our life together, i dont think i can marry a man who can't be depended on.

sweets; i did too much cane suger by the spoonfull; and may have had a dream while cutting cane in somewherelse, i mistakenly macheted my right foot; it hurt mosta the next day

My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really. At the age of 12 I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it.

would you crabpiue a cream?

owo... r u there? *hugs*

+poke+