Loves Babies And Surprises But Doesn't Expect Either

Fine. I’d make cookies, but there is nobody to help put the fire out. And I refuse to do that last paper cause I am rebellious and mighty and really, two beers is more than enough to make my argument void. They deserve it anyway.
It is burning right down in my center stage forum of understanding and sentiment, until my ass hurts from sitting and my fingers are covered in glue and I’m just sorry some people are lonely and someday this gluey finger will be from working on my children’s school projects.
And I was throwing something out and thinking that I’m that person, I’m just that type, that they talk about when someone dies too young. And it makes me check the door twice and wish I wasn’t watching Worldiest Creepiest Places on my own.
Cheer up! Let it down! Settle your fingertips deep down beneath my flesh until we can’t blame the mint cookies or the center of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Until we can’t say what is good or bad and the Generation We elects handsome presidents and wishes for something like Disney land with solar and wind power. Sex without disease or consequences, and love without pure and utter misery.
I’ve got three Indians shooting at a star, three times in a row, and it’s got to make me the luckiest son of bitch I know. And its got to make me the luckiest son of a bitch I know. And its got to…
I’ll grab another and break the streak.