This morning I looked to the sun, but my retinas said no. This afternoon I looked to the sidewalk, but the swish of a passing windbreaker disagreed. This evening a snack stared back me, whispering gently about nipples. Chest nipples.
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Here’s a little bit of old fashioned tang for your timbers, straight from the terrible turbine. Top that tasty bit of tremendous alliteration. Ah crap, I broke the string. When I was a muffin, I had no muscle for marmalade, yet while muttering about making a mess a maliciously marring haymaker from a magnetic monster muddled my migration. Stupid haymakers ruin everything.
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