Hey. Shits not yours to read bread loafs of windy poppy seed poop(oh. Read the rest!!!!)
Reading emotions is not to read minds. Reading this blog means cut you’re fucking bullshit, the skip and crumb from your wife’s peace out kiss is from cake she and yep yes and about fucking.
I’m an intelligent man. But don’t ask me something like, a day I remember that made me oh so happy. You got fake fits years and your painkiller supply turned into yes please, how long was that six years? Fast gum pointer finger dip run across the numb easing of shut up. You know.
Buttered up reading fees and masks. Urbanists are cunts. rural dumbasses are still out there. Guns! Hunting! Haha! Oh shut up. DRUGS!!! YOU FUCKS. Keep that humble boob a cleave. This head. The next throb of your noise. Porn sound art.
Portland Oregon is now strung.
Out. Stop publication twelve step hopey mopey.
I am the limp pale color of bloods seed
Jerking expect my revelation, now that stale is caking the lips
you press that magnum to them too hard
Lines crust gumb get more fucko
War is bullshit. SHIT WAR IN THE FIRST! IM BRIAN FUCKING HARDIE. YOU THINK? STOP KEEPING ME THE WORST SECRET FOR BEING BEST. THIS TOWN HAS TWO ARTIST ONE MAN ONE GIRL FUCK YEAH THE GUY IS ME OH SHE? HATES ME. TEST TEST TEST TING
Foreclosure Barn Bash Bus Bass Chord Studios. Plural because the studio is usually just my fucked self with needs.