A winter’s day. The mercury stood up and shouted. The polar bears’ coats were dirty and keeping cold would be next to impossible. I cross examined the witness and the witness was me. The argument in favor of the species had lost steam with the jury, and we were running out of time to ruminate.
Better hire a platypus to come in and dash the thing apart, then dish about it all, to our confidante, on a Twitter feed to Mars.
Fashion thought so highly of herself, she lost her sense of humor. Twitter took advantage. Meanwhile, over at the Red Hawk Casino, nickel games plied the minds with dazzling wheels of chance and free drinks. The tribe was making bank. I looked into a mirror and gave up on my face, you dropped another twenty in timeless space.
When she wanted somethin bad enough, she got sweet like high fructose corn syrup.
She would turn her head to an angle most becoming through his eyes of her figure, a calculation she fine tuned in response to the f-stop of his dilated pupils. Her lashes flicked like butterflies alighting.
The moment his attention shifted from the galaxy s, operation tweet unfollow, to her revival theatrics sillhouette girlfriend experience, she popped the suddenly rhetorical question…
“Do you think maybe you could help me out?”