When In Doubt, Ingest Carbs.

Prayer Or Not, I Want To Believe That, Despite All Evidence To The Contrary, It Is Possible For Anyone To Find That One Special Person. That Person To Spend Christmas With Or Grow Old With Or Just To Take A Nice Silly Walk In Central Park With. Somebody Who Wouldn't Judge Another For The Prepositions They Dangle, Or Their Run-on Sentences, And Who In Turn Wouldn't Be Judged For The Snobbery Of Their Language Etymology Inclinations.

The Handwriting Was A Girl’s. I Mean, You Can Tell. That Enchanted Cursive.

She Told Me If I Clean All The Ashes Out Of The Grate, Then I’ll Be Able To Help My Sisters Get Ready For The Bal.” “it’s Christmas, Dashiel. Can’t You Give That Atitude A Rest?” “merry Christmas, Dad. And Thanks For The Presents.” “what Presents?” “i’m Sorry—those Were All From Mom, Weren’t They?

All This Hoping For Nothing-or Someone-that's Maybe Hopeless

I Deciced If I Were Ever To Get Into Booze And Women, My Line Would Be, 'excuse Me, Madam, But I Would Really Love To Bed And Muss You. . . . Are You Perchance Free This Evening?