Stitch witch Fernandez, folly smell polly otter britches for the love of how many lost sailors in the sea of temerity and sometimes regretful lust? Who doesn’t associate sailors with regretful lust these days anyway? Those poor ladies and gents take a pill and forget their troubled soda fountain fantasies, being king and queen at the prom, being king and queen at the prison camp, being king and queen at nothing at all. But they must tell themselves they are king and queen at everything in particular, or the PTSD will sink in, groaning bottlecaps of philosophy until there’s nothing left to them and to all their dedicated brethren, shackled to jingle bell fury (not unlike bongo fury, just around the Winter months with tinsel). Oh, those poor intrepid wanderers of the human invertebrate psyche, those who develop thoughts according to their predestiny, their density assured for at least three tours of duty. And nobody cares anyway. They’re all wondering how they can somehow stand out amongst the other clowns, the sick practitioners of boredom for aesthetics’ sake, those poor intrepid sailors who think they’re taking life by the horns; they don’t understand.
What? Oh, nothing. I was just sharpening a shoehorn and calling it my mother. Move along, nothing to see here, crowface. I’m sorry, crowface is insensitive. Raven countenance suits you better? Okay, I’ll remember that from now on.