Understanding american slang took an irish movie, a book on a Canadian liberation organization and the introduction of hip hop. Yo!
I'm wound up tight and the melatonin looks particularly ripe tonight.
Flash in and flash cards on the table. There are books all over the floor and I'm still wound tight. I wonder why I'm putting myself through this tortuous process of judgements and trial and error and failure and deception. It's a non-climaxing feeling. There is a build-up. Then comes the reality of the act. And then, just as you're playing a back and forth, sometimes verbal, sometimes physical.
Nothing.
And using cheap literary tricks like a single word, single sentence paragraph feels redeeming. Or the use of homonyms to refer to the metaphorical and literal foundations on a song about making lemonade with lemons or better yet, eating lemons but not being bitta. And sometimes all that is required is for you to smile at the sound of another nubile young british voice. And there are those from unknown origin that sing to remind you of the time of this or that.
Writing to decompress.
And tomorrow is the day of judgement. The rapture. Not really but it's quite quite close to a scary amount. Putting your eggs in one basket and then surrounding the aforementioned basket with open flame, hammers (to crush the eggs with in such a manner that not all the king's men can piece them back together) and egg-snatchers does put the pressure on.
Start spreading the word.
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