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twelve-year-old solves burglary. This should tell you all you need to know about the sad state of law enforcement in rural Georgia. I'm sure many rural cops are good men devoted to the job, but there are also many who took the job solely for the small-town prestige afforded by the badge, and they don't give a rat's ass for the duty they swore to uphold.
I'm still undecided as to whether her reported snark of, "I did your job for you again," is bratty or sublime.
Dear Rammfen,
Richard is forty-four years old. His skin is going to sag a bit. It's part of aging, and it's vastly preferable to the glossy, stiff, overstretched Botox look of so many celebrities. He's still an amazing guitarist, and he's still sex on legs. It's not the end of days.
And I'd still tap him like an Oktoberfest keg.
I'm grinding along on Sprache XVII. Writing the experience of falling in love from the perspective of a forty-year-old man who's been hurt before and grown jaded as a consequence is hard when you're a starry-eyed woman in your thirties who has scant experience with romance save for a disastrous love affair that exploded spectacularly, and who still resolutely believes in happily ever after even as she drifts along in her comfortable yet decidedly platonic relationship.
But it keeps my mind active and my pecker up, and mayhap someone will find some simple pleasure in the reading.
And now, a bum pageant:
Our first contest, Dero Goi:
Nice, indeed, but I think there's still room in that trunk for a bit more junk.
Our second contestant, Richard Kruspe:
Here, Mr. Kruspe demonstrates the proper fit, as well as the optimum arrangement of junk in his magnificent trunk.
Please leave your votes in the ballot box to your left.
I'm still undecided as to whether her reported snark of, "I did your job for you again," is bratty or sublime.
Dear Rammfen,
Richard is forty-four years old. His skin is going to sag a bit. It's part of aging, and it's vastly preferable to the glossy, stiff, overstretched Botox look of so many celebrities. He's still an amazing guitarist, and he's still sex on legs. It's not the end of days.
And I'd still tap him like an Oktoberfest keg.
I'm grinding along on Sprache XVII. Writing the experience of falling in love from the perspective of a forty-year-old man who's been hurt before and grown jaded as a consequence is hard when you're a starry-eyed woman in your thirties who has scant experience with romance save for a disastrous love affair that exploded spectacularly, and who still resolutely believes in happily ever after even as she drifts along in her comfortable yet decidedly platonic relationship.
But it keeps my mind active and my pecker up, and mayhap someone will find some simple pleasure in the reading.
And now, a bum pageant:
Our first contest, Dero Goi:
Nice, indeed, but I think there's still room in that trunk for a bit more junk.
Our second contestant, Richard Kruspe:
Here, Mr. Kruspe demonstrates the proper fit, as well as the optimum arrangement of junk in his magnificent trunk.
Please leave your votes in the ballot box to your left.
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