You can wear your plaid skirt.
I left it in my gym locker. I guess I can get it back, but that'll be quite a heist to produce a plan for, not to mention a
budget. (Fortunately, we have your dowry to rely on. Wew!)
So I guess... surely, this is your chance to prove yourself. Oh and get those s***** tattoos of yours removed. Take the money out of the petty cash drawer, don't worry, if you haven't earned it already, you sure will before—dare I say, I daresay
‘ere—the honeymoon is over.
I'm not kidding. Well, I guess I was about the s***** tattoos... while you're at it, just get rid of all of them, even though I'm really going to miss the one with (PROT) and (PROT) (blanking) in the back of a Studebaker while Bluto chases them down the interstate.
On foot.It's amazing work, stunning, really: it's breathtaking what a truly cunning artist can do with just a pen and a pound of flesh, but maybe you just squared your shoulders, took aim, & fixed
The Artiste with the steely- & beady- & beaty-eyed glare that you're known for—you know, the one that you stole my heart with, God rest Its soul—and told
The Artiste that you'd call the police if
The Artiste didn't do it right, and that's why there's so much
authentic artistic nuance evident whenever, wherever & while you wildly flex your (white,
I hope) pecs.
Wait, is there a t in that word? F*** this iPhone. Goddam. tl;dr LOSE THE F****** INK M***********— *click*