Life Stoops

Since I last penned: the stories I could tell: number many, as with all, but all, if not most, aren't worth telling. No longer thoroughly abstemious, excluding ubiquitous tea-fuel. Perhaps being a soiled human isn't all that, although no longer can I drift, conversationless, and peer down my nose despite my height. Obviously it's Ben's fault, and, consequently, his decision as to whether to shower himself in scorn or praise. Other pastures—one in particular—remain tangibly obscure.

Hush Music

The finest strain of tea, and the finest of company, and there was I—me—, lashed between uneducated, crawling thoughts, each making an unwise break for my mouth, and chewing, as one does, on a December tart, whilst that unspecified companion of mine, clad boldly in red halves, echoed my jaw's joyous rhythm, only with a decidedly more mundane treat (and beat, while I'm at it), and, I suspected, a more workaday approach. As you will have no doubt gathered by now, this is a situation I often find myself in, but its bottoms are still, teasingly, never quite got at, despite my very sensible reach, and the only way I can inch myself closer (centimetres sound too ugly, you see) is by picking and clawing, sparing nothing in the process. So be it that I may never fully repay your patient eyes!

"It's a mystery to me," he decided, employing the least of his vocabulary.
"Oh, I know," I said. "Oh, I do!"
"You do! I know—I'm glad."
"I do! I am."
"Oh I'm sorry, what of you? I failed to ask. All this of me—unhealthy! What of you?" (This is all to the best of my recollection, mind.)
"Me? Oh, you know—you do. I rummage, I find, I get attached. And the prefix un ruins my fun. That's life, they say; yes—mine especially. There's the early heavens and the late hells, but limbo's the worst. Concrete, even the vilest, has the cool comfort of conformation as its plus; limbo has none such. Limbo is hell masquerading as two possibilities. It shows a skylight to safety and hands you a spade. Do I even mind, though? Somewhat, yes. When someone goes rueful walkabout, later citing a specious fuse, I lose kilos, and demand, quietly, a straightforward sentence. I'd much prefer a felled axe to swinging ligaments. I know, I know, I know—like a Disney lemming to a cliff, someone went off me. Yes, I went off, all right: first, like a rocket; last, like milk. What is it exactly? A smashing surface and an ugly depth? Temporarily interesting virtues? A role and nothing more? Heaven forbid great features. Curse these well-formed boobs."
"Oh, you're a woman this time?" chimed in Ben, helpfully.
"Ya-huh. Innovative spin, no?"
"Tell me, Miss, is this she to whom you refer (or so I infer) of the earth or of the air?"
"Of the nothing."

Ben: Out of All Proportion

Specifically for my gorgeous muse—named, of all things, Ben—, here is a response to mere prodding. Perhaps one day, on a quiet, earthly beach, his presence alone will set about the musing, but for now his soul purpose can only be reached through goading fists—gorgeous goading fists, granted, but still not innocent, inspirational ones. Thus, I, atop my newly artificial podium, have a question to pose out of all proportion: what shall I wreak?

Smoke! Of course! Raisin affairs—. Or does thou wish to confine his proddee to celebrity fashion criticism?: "Did you see Nickel's prairie dress? It looked as if she'd sat on an effigenic Las Vegas wedding cake at a humorist convention in Berlin.". Yes, my savoir-faire extends even that far—although I suspect my raison d'être neglects those far-flung fields. Do you, Ben? Either way, I have no Francweese tongue and have run out of clichés. But there's always the quo—

"Why do we spend so much or our time reading about fictional characters when we have so many real characters at our disposal, characters who are untainted by the laws of narrative and artistic knowledge, and with whom interaction is infinitely more fulfilling? Are we really so sheltered and hollow that we favour pale reflections of life over the real thing? We listen to other people sing aphorisms in our ears and read about other people's fictional lives on our laps in trains, buses, trams, where we are surrounded by other people, and yet no one does a thing about it—no one glances left. Christ! I mean, we're nearing the end of the last possible year where my age matches the century."
"Um, yes. Very insightful, Ben," I yawned. "Um— Happy birthday?"
"It wasn't really, but I appreciate your belateness."
"Belatedness," I corrected.
"I know; I was being smart."
"Well stop it. I'm tired."
"Fine. Goodnight, darling."
"Goodnight."
"—Darling."
"Goodnight."

We're Not at Home to the Broke of Heart

I'm with the Light Brigade, she quipped, yesterday, Monday, with nary on the contrary, as if to say she was light on lumps. Tuesday followed, like all good Tuesdays do, and so did her grave train of thought: I'm on a top of the world, she stilted, beckoning belief, nose in chief. I am, persisted she, I am indeed—and it's nought not oft I say Indeed, 'tis it? Nought not no, I replied, calmly and rudely stealing an obvious glance at the time on my wrist.

The following Wednesday, we went for Melb's poisons of choice, at the old, bleak brew, we two. She ordered each tip-full, brought it to logic's conclusion and gravity's disarmament. And: I love you, I said, meaning each word but the last. Do you?, she tippled, cocking her chin for a laugh. I do, I continued, do you me? Do I who? Do I who? Forget it. I will. Applause. You, she began, seem different today. I snapped: I am different today. Why? I've on a different hat, to fool. To fool? You fool. That as may be, but ask a question— Quiet.

When Wednesday ceased, it seemed Thurs— Good morning, ever chipper I announced, for that was what it was—both senses. Is it? She turned her gaze to her Polish nails. Doesn't seem as though 'tis. Well, your seems apart, that is what it is, my loaf. I forced a stern look upon her. Did you get the newspaper? No. How could I have? Why don't you, then? I intend to. A snort this time. Any time soon? No, any time after I'm distinctly less pink, and washed. I have to do it myself do I? No. Yes I do. Yes you do, then.

What the fuck is I'm With The Light Brigade supposed to mean? Friday's response was merely an insular nod. Nothing? Yes, dear, nothing. What does it mean? Nothing. I fisted the wall. She peered, uncaring, behind her reading rims. Why that for? You won't tell me what you mean. Pah! You're the one who has to fix it. I know. I fingered the hole; this was going to take some fixing.

Bad Bones and the Sag

That old phone don't ring no more and that sweet old sun refuse to shine (at least not on my watch—although the glass ain't top-notch), and that empty bed (how sad a sight!) is as empty as it always was, and much emptier than it once wasn't, almost as if, by force of miracle, a cast has spelled my doom, no matter how persuasive my offer (or how slick my hair-gel)—: full of every waxed positive, abounding with compliments—of the stonewash nature—, and even, on occasion, with a fistful of fresh, fat cash (though not in the way you think—if you indeed do—nor in any logic-based way),---No, like, as it is, I've told, when the skin settles off your bones, so too does any chance of peeling off knee-highs, and so too does, by rights, health and entire happiness: whole happiness—as in, round the Horne—is full of itself back in those less-hunched, less-lessoned days of yore (and mine). But what's the use of spilling milk over it? How could that improve it?

It can't, quoth a new paragraph, nor can it hope to improve anyone within ear's range,---Virtually it is but a truffle:—hard to swallow, harder to afford, but overall distasteful (couldn't we learn a lesson from that?—: and, in hope, we can't be lessoned by it). But what of it? Let's get the swimmers off and leap into the ice, like René and his alumni have always told and taught us, leaning, as they were, on life-to-the-fullest.

Pub Life

I'm sure there are many out there who, after being jerked around by the mailman, turn to that most eloquent of drink, drink, and bottom-up. Then, after dunking their fill, they crawl on home to mamo and father, and fridge.

"It's like the most great tamo-reeeeen," they scream. "Or the loveliest of tumbones."
At this point, they seem inwardly motivated, and their hair-pins fail to hold their thoughts in firm, proper place. But they do seem to be having a particularly good time, somehow. There's dim lights, wet spots and ugly sponges, but all in all it's an everyone's-invited.

And so the morale of this tale? Well, the troops therein are actually in good spirits today, thanks mainly to the good spirits they drank last night.

That Time of the Season!

"Again!" I screamed, rising from my highly portable chair.
"Again?"
"Again!"

And so it was. After a few more agains, I allowed them a rest and a drink.
"What was wrong with the last one?" asked the troublesome among them.
"What was wrong with it?" I chuckled. "My dear fellow! What wasn't wrong with it?"

A time later, Ben opened his eyes and rose from the grass, mischief in his brow. He smoothed off his dinner suit and waxed the thinnest of thin smiles at no one in particular, then plucked the thermos from the makeshift and pummeled a delightful cup of hot chocolate. A thick brown mustache soon showed his appreciation.

"If I weren't such a bigot, I'd come over there and finger-wipe that artificial facial hair clean off. And I'd do it pretty damn lovingly too," said Harry, nodding convincingly.
"And if I weren't such a reasonable person, I might just let you," said Ben cooly.

Tom was in the ice box, rummaging for soda, as per. He had just finished wedding an arrangement of his kinfolk's concoction and he wasn't going to swallow it without the aid of non-alcoholic bubbles. Thankfully, the task turned out a complete success, and Tom and his soda soon shared a kiss.

"Again!" I called, prompting them back into Action mode.
"Shall we do it any differently?"
"Certainly not."

And that's how it went. That was my day. How about you? Did you have a good day too? I hope you did.

From Here to Hurling

Events of late cast a streak down reputations, as has oft. been predicted. It seems that to truly break with tradition one must truly break with verve. Envious, as accused, I hurtled my fingers off at this whole world and found that my true carnal desire was to lack. The follow, I'm sure, you can picture: me, hands raised, head back, knees grounded, screaming into the rain, below the balcony, my object fluttering her eyelashes coldly behind the window, hair in a bun, as per. And the following you may wish as aural accompany: "Me? Oh, just someone who rode a bus with you". The reply was vicious, in a hit-me-with-a-brick kind of way, and choice was whittled into merely leaving as quick as p. and chewing pride, dignity, lust. To slice ease through my embarrassment, I spurned six-hundred pages of poise and prose upon returning: self-pity and bile et cet., aimed at us. That's how the guilty artistes live with themselves. And that's how I found myself, guitar in hand, the following morning, murdering my favourite uplifting anthem beneath 'er window.

"And it felt like church bells or the whistle of a train," I sang, attempting to maintain the strum while thumping my chest heroically.
"Jesus Jesus Jesus."
"As I pray that you will hold me dear."
"You had better get the heck off my property."
"When the sun— What?"
"You heard me."
"Oh. I guess this is goodbye then."
"No, this is me telling you to get the hell off my property."
"Heck."
"What?"
"Bye."

At times like that, the only thing you can do is sit upon the highest limb of a tall tree and chew awhile, so I went back home and watched television.

Herring George

Well, I suppose you're all wondering about my day. You are? Great. I'll tell you. Today I munched around town wearing an army reserves bum-bag (a tampon, as it's known in the U.S.), which I had stuffed full of chocolate bars and Polaroid™ digital cameras, and frequented (went to) a number of flashy dives. Well, cafés. I decided to meet a different friend for each one, and my first was, of course, Ben. Oh, the ears on that man!

"What's in the bum-bag?" he asked, a forkful of lumberjack cake prostrating in his mouth.
"Well, chocolate bars—but you're already eating cake, so you can't have one!" I snapped. In retrospect, I'll admit it was rather snappier than was necessary in the circumstances.
"Calm down," said Ben, with due cause. "I was only curious. And you're quite right: this cake is plenty enough for me at the moment."
"Good to hear. So't's nice?"
"Very. It would not be hyperbolic to call it delicious."
"Fab."
"Mm," intoned Ben, and we paused.
"Jesus," he added a moment later. "Shall I write it off as déjà vu?"
"It's for the best," I replied. "Otherwise the repetition will get you down."
"But we've done this for a year."
"Well, so's the sun risen everyday."
"Huh?"
"I don't know." I pushed my plate away morosely and fished a chocolate bar from my bum-bag.
"Oh all right," I said, "you can have one." I retrieved another and offered it to him.
"N'anks," he said, waving it away. "I said the cake was enough and I was telling the truth."
I shrugged a faux-nonchalant shrug and placed the milk chocolate & caramel creation back 'neath the zip.

"I could kill you off or something," I suggested optimistically.
"No, that's the easy way out. At this point, only S.C. and J.J. could pump fresh life into it."
"Sigh."
"Christ, don't do that. When people actually say Sigh instead of sighing it, it makes my skin crawl a K."
"Whatever."
"Followed closely by people saying Whatever when their pride's been pricked."
"I'm going to go now."
"Are you? Well, I'm going to say Bye then, and finish my cake."
"You've already finished."
"Not the next piece I haven't."
"Ah. Well, bye."
"Yep."

The rest of my encounters that day were especially forgettable, and I forget them.

The Ivory Pill

Loot and Lilly were busy indoors with the building of a bookshelf that was to be varnished but not painted. Outdoors was an expansive hill on top of a mountain, over which kids ran, and on which nice people sat.

"Is the shelf centred?" asked Loot.
There was a pause.
"Yeah, it's very shelfish," said Lilly.
There was a pause.
"What?"
"It's very shelfish."
"Yes, I heard you, but what are you talking about?"
"It's a pun."
"On what?"
"On selfish. You said it was shelf-centred."
"No, I said, 'Is the shelf centred'."
"Yeah, but it still works."
"No it doesn't. It would only work if I said, 'Is the shelf shelf-centred' or, 'Is the shelf self-centred'."
"It doesn't matter. It's a pun."
"A pun has to work on both levels. You can't say something like, 'Is the self-centred', can you? It doesn't make sense. A true pun should make grammatical sense in both contexts. Like um... um... Like a sailor guy saying that he likes to throw little buoys into the ocean."
"That was terrible."
"It was just an example."
"Well, I still think my one was a good pun. There's no rule saying it has to work in both contexts. Go get a dictionary."
"Oh yeah? Well would you jump off a bridge if they told you to?"
"Huh?"
"I want to go outside."
"We have to finish the bookshelf first."
"No we don't. Let's get the kite."
"But... Oh... All right. Let's."

By the Buckles

Juicy was, as per, sitting nonchalantly on the veranda with some sort of beverage and some sort of reading material. The accompanying day was, while not exactly sunny, wonderful and still, and it also happened to be precisely the right temperature for an extemporisational adventure. Meanwhile, we're unclear as to whether it was a weekend or a weekday, but that hardly matters. Oh and did I mention the mirror? No? Good. That hardly matters either. Anyway, here was Juicy on this specific day, reading and drinking.

"Morning, Juicy" said Harlot, fimbling with his toe and collar.
"Oh, hullo," said Juicy, looking up. "How's it?"
"Oh, not too bad. A bit on the ragged side, you know, but it's bound to clear up."
"Ah. I see."
"Yeah. You?"
"Me? Oh, I'm just the usual."
"Is that a good thing?"
"You know, I think it is."
"Terrific."
"And it's a nice day, too."
"It is! Not sunny, but still and lovely. I really enjoy these sort of days. Could be my favourite."
"Oh, me too. They're marvelous."
"They are."
There was, predictably, a reflective pause.
"Watcha reading?" asked Harlot after it.
"Oh, you know. A lovely little book."
"How lovely! Which one, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I don't mind a bit. Oh, and it's The Lovely Serials."
"Can't say I've heard of that, but it sounds great."
"It is! It's these lovely little stories about these gals who travel around and solve mysteries. You know, magnifying glasses and ancient treasure. Marvelous stuff."
"That does sound marvelous! I might take a look-see sometime."
"Oh, you should. I recommend it."
"In fact, I might just write it down now. What did you say the title was again?"
"The Lovely Serials."
"Ah yes, that was it. Thanks."
"You are most welcome, sir."
"And you are most lovely, madam."
Juicy giggled.
"Silly."
"And proud of it," said Harlot, bursting into a grin. "Anyway, I must be off. I have one or two pressing errands to attend to."
"Oh, you mean the ironing?"
"Now who's silly? But no, my lovely lady. Just sugar-borrowing and that sort of thing."
"Oh, sure. Have fun."
"I'll do my best, lovely. I hope you enjoy the rest of this fine day, and drop in on me anytime."
"I will."
"You will to which?"
"Whichever, sir."
"In that case, I will wave off and see you — or not see you — then. Goodbye!"
"Bye, sir."

Ben the Philosopher

It would, of course, be wittier if I didn't succumb to my prediction and write this, but, having none of my balls land in the vicinity of any better ideas, I shall do it anyway.

When Ben states that he isn't, in fact, a philosopher, he is merely philosophising on the uselessness, philosophically, of philosophy, and, in particular, the existence of philosophy as a distinct practice when in fact it's merely thinking. And everybody, as Harry pointed out in his amiably naïve way, does that. But ignoring such definitions for a moment, the presence of a large, black scholarly robe and haywire hair, not to mention his qualifications, certainly label Ben a philosopher in the traditional sense. And he does spend his days cooped up in a room filled with scrolls and dusty books and a distinct lack of windows. He, like all philosophers, knows that the best way to uncover the hidden truths of the world is to be locked away from it most of the time.

The annoying think about these philosophers is that whenever an occasion arises where you think, 'Gee, I must consult a philosopher about all this', and, in fact, do, you're always left with more questions than you had before you came. Ben, thankfully, is an exception. Last week when I bashed my fist on his grand oak door, and, upon its opening, spilt my worried guts on his shoulders, he placed a gun-shaped hand to support his chin, scratched his skull with the other and, a minute later, articulated a solution, which, I'm happy to inform, was resolute and, ultimately, successful.

Home is Where the Hearth Is

'Twas perched upon the trusty ol' inglenook, a glass of stout orange juice wrapped in my hand, that it first struck me. Love, like that famous rose, is love is love is love. And the same applied to life. Of course, I doubt those staunch fellows at the Oxford would immediately leap to their typewriters and publish a revised edition, but nevertheless this definition, on a philosophical level, is enormously beneficial for those existential ninnies trying to expunge contentment from daily life. And if I can get just one of 'em to see the light—or lack thereof—then I'll consider it a thigh-slapping success.

But why impose my own radical philosophical beliefs on others? Why stoop to Mormon-like lows? Well, the answer is this. If I manage to successfully convert a hitherto unconverted bud, it will fill me with a positively self-satisfied filling of my rightness and their wrongness, and that, for an ego-fiend like me (I don't mind admitting it), is more than enough. As a bonus, it would give me a feeling of power, too, as it—well, her or he—would be a living demonstration of my influence.

Unfortunately, there is a daunting mound of work that needs to be completed before I can let my mind escape to such fulfilling pursuits, so I won't pursue the issue any further just yet. But I will leave you with this potentially life-changing question: have you polished your brain lately?

Milkhill Puppy

I can hear the chug-chug-chugging of fourteen bright hearts in their vibraphonic shells. And all this on a Wednesday. Earlier today, you see, I pushed my bike up the steep hill to the coal field, and found it in a continental state. Whether this property belonged to the bike or the coal field is hard to say, but I can say this, and, indeed, just did. But quibbles in a pile for a moment, the true discovery of my journey was how much fresher the air was up there, and how the clouds, usually foreboding, dark creatures, revealed their winning personalities.

Milkhill, as I affectionately call him, hopped on by three hours after my return and informed me of each errand he had to do, in chronological order, and each gathering he had to attend, with particular emphasis on the enormous amount of hopping he would have to do to get from gathering to gathering, errand to errand, gathering to errand and errand to gathering. I listened as patiently as a stunted man possibly could and then offered him a stiff cup of tea, which, after his accepting and my preparation, he gulped down within a matter of seconds.

When he returned to my quarters, he was in a dishevelled sate and panting heavily. I made a joke about trousers, but, seeing as it referenced a narrative description of his respiration and not anything that he could mentally perceive from the information available, he responded with confusion. I didn't explain.

He was a good friend and I liked him. I told him so, taking extra care to convey the platonic nature of this compliment so as not to scare him off. Then, thinking I'd gone too far with this rather soggy outburst, I punched him in the gut and said I was joking.
"So you don't like me?"
"...No, I like you, I suppose."
"So you weren't joking?"
"No, I was joking. But I was telling the truth to some extent too."
"Oh."
There was a sticky pause. I punched him in the gut again and then left bright red.

From your favourite attention-seeking plagiarist,
Stephan Eggberg.

Martha's Day

Well, as we all know, I'm a positive weasel when it comes to matters of the heart, particularly when they bypass the ribs, but recently I've delved head-first into the published pillow talk of a relatively well-known author and have decided my mind, being soiled, needs a change. So how did these dewey worlds stir such an overhaul in my pot? Well, put as simply as I can make it, they showed hitherto cynical me why that peculiar emotion was, to quote an era, all you need, for this author of which I speak also began on the wrong side of our fundamental plague, thinking it a mere infatuation which had been hyperboled to oblivion by inane poets. This all changed, I soon discovered, when he met his then-stranger, now-wife, Mrs. Roo, and fell hills over mountains into what could only be described as love.

Unfortunately, I didn't have such a miraculous reason to change my morals; rather, I put my faith heavily onto someone else's miraculous reason. But a published author is a published author, and Mr. Roo, if nothing else, was that. And for the moment, I'm going to stick to his words like so much extra-strength name-brand glue, my reasoning being that if I embrace this funny habit of ours face-first, a wonderful woman will wind up in my clock. To this end, I even started opening my eyes fully on public transport to appear approachable to the fairer sex. 

Those embittered by its trappings will no doubt find my prattlings to be further proof of my madness, but I'm hoping that those of the wiser persuasion, with their hearts wedged open in an inviting matter (or wedged shut by a hole-filling spouse), will embrace it with all the warmth of a lover and feed its creator's ego. Right now you are hearing the sound of summer.

Most of Al

Well we sat on the edges of each's seat, and we wet for the wait to be whoa whoa-ver, and we et biscuits from a grand jar, whose lid was no more than sheet of glad, and we made a list of things I willn't go into here. And all the while we told each ear that we ain't going nowhere, least of all here. But not that did we each mind about was more on the quaninary side of things for each to tell and all to did well for long. But not how each had mind was going.

And a poorest example of poorest examples was Al's inability to support his firmly. Holed it in pride manner were was various nouvelle quasi men of means and—wait for it—plates o' beans! Each head his meal lain before him like a platter of inspiration. And each had a peach wedged just out of reach. Three rhymes, each banal, and all of the same Latin route, if you'll pardon my Parisian. Well, thirst thing's thirst, and tap's on third. And oh.

Gristly Nest

As is the norm and as was our wont, Ben was a-sharing a pot o' tea with me 'round a table set for two. It had been brought into existence just a few minutes earlier after I struck upon the uncanny idea of pouring boiling hot water into a teapot filled with three scoops of tea and leaving it for a bit. And now we was drinking it.
"The thing is," began Ben, holding his teacup aloft in contemplation, "you need a unique voice; something to separate you from the masses."
"Go on," went I.
"Well, essentially it boils down to—hey, we're drinking tea!—making something different enough to attract an audience while simultaneously appealing to their existing notions of humour and/or insight derived from a wide variety of media outlets."
"That's a tricky line to tread," I observed.
"Indeed it is. But if you believe in what you're doing, then, well, it would help, I suppose."
"But do we even need recognition?"
"Well, that's the thing, i'n't it? Would we feel unworthy if we went unnoticed? Would it feel like a waste?"
"No."
"Precisely. I mean, if we really wanted attention, we could frock up in trench-coats and thrust into the breeze."
"And we do that anyway."
"We do. Thus our real goal in all this should be to go completely unnoticed."
"It's a deal. And this way, we don't need to change our approach one bit."
"Exactly right, Hump."

It was a rip-snorting success.

The Lamb Ran Away with the Clown

Half a tin of oil, I've noticed, is all it takes to convince a flabby circus to pull the pegs, which is something, believe it or else, that happens with frightening regularity—if I can be so mindless as to employ that phrase. Now, I don't suppose this is the kind of going on that goes on around your neck of the woods, but down here where the grass is dust, it's as common as complacency. Every so Easter and every so Christmas and every so anything, that disgusting bulb of a truck, with its vertebrate of grubby trailers and motor-biking masters of ceremony, rolls red into town and sprays obnoxious waves of sound 360 and 247. And upon witnessing any of their assaults on the senses, I lift my leg, let out a great sigh and reach for the nearest oil canister.

The problem is, of course, that they never get the picture. No matter how many times I combat the fax machine or mail them a frame, they still seem to get the impression that someone in our earthly pit is positively four feet off the ground at the thought of their arrival. Now, I don't pretend to speak for everyone, but I think I speak for most of them when I say that nobody here wants those unwashed peculiars fumbling about with rubber balls and the backs of elephants in our humble pillow town. And yet despite this, I seem to be the only one who bothers to oil them out whenever Mr. and Mrs. Backward light up with the bright idea of returning to a profitless place of unwelcome.

Though shooing them off is a relatively simple task, there is always a significant amount of debris left to sort out. And the war raged in my guts usually falls to the side of the broom and I have to do it all myself. On average, this takes around two days to complete, and by the end of it I'm as flat as a balloon manufactured with a hole in it, and twice as useless. And it takes the better part of a week before the gusts can pick me up again. I'll probably die in about five years.

Lilly Thinkers

Th's mornin' I was porting m'self a cup o' steamin' brow'. Not fo' long, mine you, as rilly, it only takes arrant five seconds ta fill th' cup — if that, so don go thinkin' that's 'ow I spen' m'whole mornin'. Bu' i' was what I was doing wh'n Lilly woked into my live. Oh 'ow beaut'ful she was! 'Air like pearly silk, skin like flesh, and bits like big. I was'n love. I stark out m'hand to 'ers and we torched each author. And lemming tells ya, boys, she fell so nice! Not only was she pleasin' to the eye, but to th' hans as well. Is dare a more heavily compilation? Anyway, we two got to talkin' pity soon afte' that, and turns out she's caught a grade mind too. We talk'd fa ours and ours. She's a fun bun, all ride.

In chap' two, I toll you 'bout my mistrust, who's a lov'ly lady when the Mormon's right, but is not too crash halt when it isn't. An' I toll you 'bout her 'abit fur not gong starkers at th' time when y'think moist people sh'd be. Anyway, Lill's not lark that. She weaped off 'er dressin' gow' beaver I even took off m'socks! Was a lov'ly s'prise, let me tell you. And, if you'll park on my friends, we forked like rabids. Not in the sends that we gore dow' on or fours or anythin', but in the sends th' it was excitin' and bashin' it. That's wort they mean with the 'ole rabid fing, ride? Anyway, whatever. We had a want her full dime.

Thirty yeahs later, I married th' beach. That's 'ow love works, boys. It's as symbol as that. And on a person'l level, we godda care chew a woman.