you're too slow-- my plow horse pseudo-husband
My plow horse of an aide, in actuality no match for the dried bramble of my disillusionment, is simply too genteel a minority for my rancor over desire whetted on biological happenstance. He trotted me through my paces today, and at the end of this billing period, my old USB plug in will be discontinued, and I contracted a Galaxy S8 over 30 months, though when I can return to actually being a journalist? It isn't simply a matter of ignited loins; it is an issue of psychic separation. I've grown too close, too dependent, and if I want to dim my heart then I need to split him off and go do my thing. On the basis of my prior dim-wittedness, however, I will continue using my Apple for my hotspot. I'll know more next week about whether my considerable deficits can shoulder two lines. I am assuming, given his followers, that Russ Still is a minor celebrity and I should play the affable savant gratified that he followed me. If I do not misconstrue the matter, thank you for following me, Russ Still, but the dowager is a woman with many hard blows kneaded into her, the woman kicking her ribcage inside begging for one last passionate twirl, while the outer ligaments of her body grow increasingly reluctant to do anything except burrow through six feet of top soil for the rest in peace as a universal Kantian experience. Or in other words, my heart is broken because I have an almost intimate relationship with an African American paraprofessional who has my ass in a sling, but you country singers aren't afraid of cups of hemlock. How I am even writing this much on three hours of sleep Thursday?
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