I sit with Amanda Lear, while listening to a mandolin, played by a gondolier - of which I'm fond to hear - mouth corners have gone to ears. My paint brush rows us far from here. I put up with the canvas because I love the medium. I exhibit characteristics analogous to i
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[More]niquitous ubiquitousness; behavioral striations whose markings claim my err as twin. I am a canopy to cacti; while the sun plays host to cancerous blisters on my back, bubbling, smoldering, festering in their vile existence. If I could just stand up straight, I would solve two problems at once. Proverbial vertebrae require considerable effort to manipulate. My veins house loyalty; free-flowing, lacking the infarction I so desperately - and unwittingly - needed. Too bad that loyalty isn't to the infrastructure through which it runs. I must exsanguinate before reparations can commence. Lobes of integrity are atrophied; these words serve as rehabilitating exercise. The path to health is rocky, uncertain and begins here. I have fallen victim to a nominative singular pronoun; how grandiose, the action, description and admission thereof. My grossly generous use of the semicolon acts as an abstract preposition; there is nothing to decipher.
[Less]
I was reading your butt pimple story and about died laughing. Just know you're not the only one with that problem I'm sure. You kinda left a cliff hanger though. Did it ever go away?