The local disputation is that it was me that, in fact, was the unaccredited author that inscribed a seditious report damning any and all Repug conspirators of whom I have battled and suffered the wounds of their simpleton degradations. And it is entirely plausible, based on the dossier I have compiled in tribute to the struggle of the loyal opposition, that some of you might be of a kindred spirit, yea, someone to thoroughly address the broader tenet of our existence against which we all grapple in some vainglorious endeavor towards some acme of recompense. Your infrequent but hotly received lexis are (is?) a driving force, a flaming rapier that inspires me onward, a beacon of distinction to guide all contrary souls that may provisionally dwell in some begotten crypt of despondency, to not capitulate against the dying of the light, even if it’s just the hall light on the way to the bathroom. But I digress. How are you really? What is the state of all that is uncurious and and in collusion in this befuddled drama without connotation nor purposeful thrust?

I could go on but I might cut into something more important, like monthly toad hunting or dancing with a local sandwich, so I’ll leave you to it. I suppose at this juncture you, like a lot of people that read my diatribes, are probably yearning for a little stopping power, be it from mystical silent sky-bound and bearded old dudes, or the business end of 38 special pointed intently at the speech center, just left of my right arched eyebrow, so I’ll save you the trouble. Write me often and with real or imagined intent, whilst I search for holes in Merton’s theory, hoping for salvation.

The local disputation is that it was me that, in fact, was the unaccredited author that inscribed a seditious report damning any and all Repug conspirators of whom I have battled and suffered the wounds of their simpleton degradations. And it is entirely plausible, based on the dossier I have compiled in tribute to the struggle of the loyal opposition, that some of you might be of a kindred spirit, yea, someone to thoroughly address the broader tenet of our existence against which we all grapple in some vainglorious endeavor towards some acme of recompense. Your infrequent but hotly received lexis are (is?) a driving force, a flaming rapier that inspires me onward, a beacon of distinction to guide all contrary souls that may provisionally dwell in some begotten crypt of despondency, to not capitulate against the dying of the light, even if it’s just the hall light on the way to the bathroom. But I digress. How are you really? What is the state of all that is uncurious and and in collusion in this befuddled drama without connotation nor purposeful thrust?

I could go on but I might cut into something more important, like monthly toad hunting or dancing with a local sandwich, so I’ll leave you to it. I suppose at this juncture you, like a lot of people that read my diatribes, are probably yearning for a little stopping power, be it from mystical silent sky-bound and bearded old dudes, or the business end of 38 special pointed intently at the speech center, just left of my right arched eyebrow, so I’ll save you the trouble. Write me often and with real or imagined intent, whilst I search for holes in Merton’s theory, hoping for salvation.

The local disputation is that it was me that, in fact, was the unaccredited author that inscribed a seditious report damning any and all Repug conspirators of whom I have battled and suffered the wounds of their simpleton degradations. And it is entirely plausible, based on the dossier I have compiled in tribute to the struggle of the loyal opposition, that some of you might be of a kindred spirit, yea, someone to thoroughly address the broader tenet of our existence against which we all grapple in some vainglorious endeavor towards some acme of recompense. Your infrequent but hotly received lexis are (is?) a driving force, a flaming rapier that inspires me onward, a beacon of distinction to guide all contrary souls that may provisionally dwell in some begotten crypt of despondency, to not capitulate against the dying of the light, even if it’s just the hall light on the way to the bathroom. But I digress. How are you really? What is the state of all that is uncurious and and in collusion in this befuddled drama without connotation nor purposeful thrust?

I could go on but I might cut into something more important, like monthly toad hunting or dancing with a local sandwich, so I’ll leave you to it. I suppose at this juncture you, like a lot of people that read my diatribes, are probably yearning for a little stopping power, be it from mystical silent sky-bound and bearded old dudes, or the business end of 38 special pointed intently at the speech center, just left of my right arched eyebrow, so I’ll save you the trouble. Write me often and with real or imagined intent, whilst I search for holes in Merton’s theory, hoping for salvation.