'Talking into your iPod doesn't make it an iPhone' & other flights of fancy

Sunday, it's a Monday. I hate jingles. Except for bells. They make me think of Christmas. Which makes me think of alcohol, I mean trees, and 'trees' makes me happy.

WARNING: This is one of those posts. No sense to be made here. Senseless sentences scrolling scintillatingly over mountains of miscellany. If you came here for the Gospel or the truth according to fiction, then you're in the right spot and by that, I mean the run down take away in Maitland. Is that even still there? Was it ever there? Was it all just a chip and gravy boat of dreams?

Alcohol is not the answer. It's merely a semi colon.

EXHIBIT A:

;

This post has not been colon cleansed. It's ribbed for your pleasure. It also has a skull.

I'm watching two Americans on television exclaiming that their significant others are more beautiful than their fried fish. Well... Given the amount of surgery, I would hope so. Although, it's hard to strike a balance between surgery and solarium. It's one or the other, lovelies. Binary is only for the wholesome.

Who knew that this post would be so full of pearls. Of poo.

That was Rwn. It wasn't really. But sometimes he creeps into my head and is louder than the other voices in there.

I don't really have other voices. There's just the one. It's yours. It echoes in the silence. SUCH a cliche, and yet so forgiven for some. Not you though. So GET OUT.

It's okay. You can stay a while. We'll drink tea. As long as it's chamomile.

Oh no. They sent the daughter to fat camp.

Sincerely spinning,
Agnes J.

Edited for Godschmod [MTH-TM]. This blog is not for discussion or ridicule of religion and instead is a platform for the many shades of sanity.