My math is my sexy. I fisted over bank accounts. The hat was a chicken bucket, felt-wrapped. His little car was a spitter. My head is on the stove. Call me ungrown. It earns me the shake clean. Pamphlets and blogs detail their disgusting, sanctioned diets. Rocks would solve her lawn. Why don't you not stop until you've done mine. The only tool bought especially for me was a hacksaw. You had to make the sound to indicate that you had changed from who you were to who you were now. The blow dryer cut off a fraction before the lights did. I pray no one passes out and loses an eye on a toothpick. Sofa covers do not stay. Anyone can stomach American food.
