Inane Episode 43
The legal sized pad of scotch tape melted the slice of cream cheese much like an enormously incongruous plaid pattern evokes memories of indecisive events. That smelting a smelly sweltering cellar releases nitrous monosulfioreoxides is not unlike a garrison of dainties from prancing about in the creamy richness of a pancake. Unexpected expectations arrived early, passing through on their way towards antiquated elevator repair shops to meet with scotch tape pads of legal size.
Ripping the month of February into thirty-one pieces would divide the 31st of February into a plagiarism of paradoxical symbolism. Ripping the days of the week into quarters would cause nickels and dimes to be jealous; they don't get enough attention or Atlantic salmon flavoured ice cream. Ripping barbarically while skinny-dipping in search for broken pajamas would be a terrible suggestion as an Olympic event. Ripping this paragraph out of this hub is not a bad idea.
Rinse, repeat.
Behaving like a seven year old child is the perfect way to spend your seventh year. I should know. If you can imagine being seven years old, especially considering your present age. There it is! The infamous incomplete sentence that serves the purpose of drawing your attention to the ceiling panels above your head, prompting you to note that the one almost furthest from view is slightly askew. An askew ceiling panel repair team was put on notice; they did not like being thumb-tacked to the radiator, however, small doses of foreign beer or a three point shot that just missed could both or neither be used as a substitute for substitution. Her reaction to the unlikelihood of this collection of parenthetical events caused a swelling, forcing the prosthesis to misbehave by mere fractions of a whole number.
Behaving like a thirty-seven year old adult is the perfect way to spend your thirty-seventh year. I should know. If you can imagine being, or having been, or going to be, or refusing to be, or accepting the possibility of being, or denying the possibility of being, or rejecting the idea of being thirty-seven years old, you are not alone. Thirty-seven as an age is totally different from that other age that is either more or less than the exact colour of my shoe laces.
Have you been or will you ever be seven or thirty-seven years old?
If the poll that precedes this paragraph offers an option that has little to do with the question being asked, blame the geography. T-shirt wearing people wear, you guessed it: socks. Sock wearing people, on the other hand, do not wear socks on their hands. Sock-handed people who wear t-shirts, well, lets just say that we have very little to say about such people. We are all better off by knowing as little as possible about their tendency to carry translucent envelopes within which can easily be viewed blueprints of savoury elliptical training machines.
