Seven Month Heart Attacks

Swing batter batter batter, the pickles are attacking my heart and I've got caramels in my kidneys, sucking the life out of my eye sockets dry and teary, face red and sting-stung right to dry knuckles and wikipedia definitions of cuticles.
We are acting all grown up and walking down aisles and naming our children a long list of currently in use names, not forgetting the nephews of our twice removed but terribly charming great grand aunts.
Obama butter rubbed into scissors not sharp enough to fight against split ends. Outlet centers finished in the time it takes four feet to walk fast, and point without stopping at items we'll never own.
Eat a calcium chew.
Race to the bathroom.
Squeeze my large intestine.
Get him a beer and a water.
Eat all the pickles.
Cover Count Chocula in marshmallow.
Ten o'clock bedtimes.
Dean is supernatural.
Max was my gray gray cat.
We can't find your face anywhere.
You're afraid to cut it off.

Let's go to the library and read children's books. Mysterious modge podge stains are all over my clothes.

Keep the secrets in the closet. Save your make-up for another day.