I Ain't Got Etiquettes.
For pleasure and pain.
I'm half charmed, half intoxicated. The latter being.. these lean fingers have wrapped the monochrome mug six times too many. Rich, noir. Love in the form of consciousness-- which I lack thereof. What God blessed: post-sunrise shoe wholesale. Juice (and shriek) inclusive femme friends. Dollar bills for manly shoes. It ain't no surprise how it's once more, the demon witching hour, and I can't get my self-proclaimed sexy self off the swivel chair. What I'm facing: Playboy France editorial. By the gloves of Karl-- magnificent to the heavens. Erotic yet.. immaculate at first (and afterwards, too) glance. If one can only amuse me with such dandy news on the whereabouts of a French Vogue locally.. oh good Lord. Sell my shoes I'd do such sin. Undoubtedly. And perhaps, unconsciously, too. What I'm stoked about: perpetuate alleged gladiator conquests. Experiencing demure heart attacks upon Chloe shoes. Truly righteous. And white button-down with rolled-up sleeves-- perfect for frolicking incandescently through summer remains. Lavish heaven-sent goods aside! Blues fans, cherish upon this: ten Cate sacked. One who provoked angst in John (John!) and curiously bears resemblance to a turtle. In the past-life, perhaps. I'm a nervous wreck-- with aplomb. Summer signings are a puzzle, millions aren't spent fast enough, and-- what's this about Tottenham wanting dos Santos! I am mad. Pissed. Baffled. Every anger-induced adjective in the dictionary. As much as I'd produce love to linger around much longer-- yawns have become kings. A merry weekend to you!
[MUSIC] the Bluetones - Never Going Nowhere
Flattery! Thank you, lads-- whom admitted without shame with their consequent visits here. I'll give subtle wit a shot (or have I already..) and yes, I shall excuse myself to deflate. And, and, and-- selling clothes, mint condition, on the cheap: visit!
