Summer gets me drunk because I don’t think; I jump in, head-first.

It’s like the folklore of the 60s and 70s; simplified America, beyond recognition.

Mark U. says that I am a conosuer of characters. Cluckasourus agrees.

All I want is to change a life, all I need is a dopamine release, all are cookies with…no fortune.

Why didn’t middle school fly this fast, and why did feeling right abandone me?

The summers are dryer now, as we dance around the ashes of denile; covered in SPF 100.

Punch the mother-fucker who says that blank is the new 20s/30s or whatever the age of filling the blank begins. Then buy him a beer with an orange-wedge.

Unfirtilized eggs will be just fine until winter, or on real ice. Eric will float an upside-down can, while Tim will float .5 CFUs .

I chill out with Girlscout to make an uneasy rhyme, suggesting rhythm.

This could be the last…I have threatened that ever since the first summer. Now, the seguaros say the same thing.

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