I can smell the quiche-lorraine burning from here.
My life has become a smut-pile for gardierineara genre.
The spelling changes based on the region.
56 epithets to get the crowd to tell me what region we’re cooking of a dish that can be found continental.
Breakfast started at 9:15am and it’s past 5.
Cabbage in the batter.
Make bread out of bread and other grain-items
Still pareve
And chaos the fatback and hotdogs into it.
Okay, well I’ve done it before; I can do it again.
Wrongo.
Dumplings are tiresome and hellbent.
A 7 day retirement.
Contracted, resisted. You asked this of me.
The Savory Baker of Italian-Origins.
Pleasing the zucchini-bread amish turned mormon
That still got cravings back in the west.
I’m going to make you eat so much pepper,
You will drink the olive brine with me.
Instead of your mustard and pickle juice tonic.
Weak sauce.
You know that’s still pepito-pepino shit coming from you, right?
Ah, the vibes of my 50s are getting to me.
Jumpstreet or not.
Cherub Rock Stance.
The Immortal Puberty of Maturity and one’s darker concerns.
What type of dirtbag was I before I became a Saint?
Apparently 100 IEDS equals Sainthood.
Right-o.
O no.
Here we go again.
Like restarting perpetually before 17 to assume alife.
Wrecking a city to reconvene a government stature.
International wreckage of rez.dog.
Good shit.
Travel snacks and k-calories.
Better switch from horseshit and “shall I put cabbage inet.”
Oh go read a book already.
Why join a bookclub?
To tell the Writer what a piece of shit you think they are.
They’re somewhere in there.
This is North Carolina.
Everybody talks, huh?
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