Bronze Lifetime
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What can I say, you're a bad influence.Maybe you should just use an empty KY tube as an urn... sicko.
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What can I say, you're a bad influence.Maybe you should just use an empty KY tube as an urn... sicko.
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Sounds like you fraked up a let her eat wedding cake... BIG mistake!
38 eight years ago I stole my mother inlaws daughter, and yes I'm still paying for it with no time off for good behavior.
But, there's gotta be some reason she sticks around- and it isn't for the pretty face,, trust me
I hear you 5x5.That's a given Bro.... lol
Us phone jocks ain't as pretty as all those desk Jockie's out there but we got what it takes to keep the ladies ringing.
Not bad, but I still think nailing the SO one last time or knocking up the hospice-nurse (with an endowment from the estate for support) would still be a better last memory to pass into the hereafter with.Author Clive Cussler once wrote that he hoped that his last moments on earth would find him in a hospital bed with a beautiful buxom blonde nurse bending over him holding a phone and whispering in his ear "Mr. Cussler, it's your accountant and he says you're broke".
We have gotten so entrenched in being ruled and brow beaten, it's in our very veins and it doesn't appear till we have an abstract idea or thought. I refuse to be processed as the STATE wants or anyone else. I should be able to ask for my last wishes be honored and the state, feds, officials be damned. I am free, born free, and will stay free. Any thoughts on this or your own wishes?
The Phantom Wooer by Thomas Lovell Beddoes said:A ghost, that loved a lady fair,
Ever in the starry air
Of midnight at her pillow stood;
And, with a sweetness skies above
The luring words of human love,
Her soul the phantom wooed.
Sweet and sweet is their poisoned note,
The little snakes of silver throat,
In mossy skulls that nest and lie,
Ever singing, "Die, oh! die."
Young soul put off your flesh, and come
With me into the quiet tomb,
Our bed is lovely, dark and sweet;
The earth will swing us, as she goes,
Beneath our coverlid of snows,
And the warm leaden sheet.
Dear and dear is their poisoned note,
The little snakes of silver throat,
In mossy skulls that nest and lie,
Ever singing, "Die, oh! die."