Good morning.

I’m very online.

Feeling so glassy.

I breathe Clowns in yellow dresses taste like Pina-Colada and smell of twohundretyears of fun.

Wonder if they turn around in Tubes and watch the Gabs as carefully as I do.

If you are a carefully, shy person, don’t go out of the door, crocodiles with wide opened opium-eyes will watch you like a hungry beer mat.

If you are so much into reality, where is the next party then and is it possible, to have one bass more, with a little of this garlic-organgejuce? That would be great, take you out to that river and we have a swan for dinner. We can sit on his feathers to have it more comfortable, not like these cold chaples. Isn’t it nice to have a drunken girl fallen down or a freaked out geek then and when?

What was this drug called again? Your name I can’t remember, but you kisses are good’n soft. Feel like kissing a fresh Pampers. I think I luv you girl.

These words are the common communication spirit of the 60s before they turned out to be a product for heats and bandeau’s, when clothes were for being worn and feeling good weather is nice, and not for being seen and hey you have a great slim belly, can you fuck straight trough that wall?, are these muscles installed properly, do I have to handle you in a different way because you’re blond or whatsoever, and SLIM, with nice big boobs? Intellectual sledging on the horny side of life.

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