What on earth is this. This is terrible. An apocalyptic spectrum, or something. A...a whangdoodle. I'm not sure how to explain myself, so I guess I should stop. You should be going now.
Don't think that all the flowers in the world are pretty! They're not; they are little lures that prevent you from having a clear view in life. They stink and foul up your nostrils. In fact, you'd better stay inside, safer that way.
Safer but to what extent? What shall entertain you? (you sure are needy.) Sometimes I find that a little piece of licorice will do the trick. Just shove it up your mouth canal and you shall be sated. For then, anyway.
Or take a foot or so of masking tape and wind it around your head to look like you are ready for Halloween. It's not really too hard, and wastes negligent amounts of natural resources, which means people won't starting attacking you and blasphemizing the name your mother so carefully chose out for you. I am simply looking out for your best interests here.
The bees don't attack the flower or disown it (which is what you should do, you); they manipulate the flower, use it for their own petty little gains. Which is alright, anyhow. I guess this is the efficiency clause of this argument. Or you could say it's the second choice. There are always choices. Sometimes one means death or being taxed or being terrible hurt or going to jail, but choices. They're alway present. Unless you make one that makes you stuck. But that's not wise; I don't advise you doing that.
Not that you know how; you are holed up in your room wearing a bit of masking tape around your head (not enough: you want the whole head to stick with it) and chewing on a piece of licorice. Give me what you have left of it, alright? I have a penchant for licorice, I'm quite partial to them.
It doesn't even make sense. Maybe you should go back outdoors, get some fresh air and germs and suicide. I haven't even put you in here for two hours and you're already looking peaky. No, though!; outisde means trees and bees and flowers; outside means manipulation and pollen and all sorts of wacky abominations. Like Frankenstein, or the Yeti, or frankinscense et myrrh. I can hardly say that. Here, you are safe. The safest of the safe, like a safe. This room's a safe; actually you are the contents of that safe. And I'm like the lock. You sure are special. I'm not lock to everybody. You're special.
No, but what's that unhappy exression on your face...hey, I've already made the choices for you; you just have to sit back and relax. Enjoy your room and the view, remember? No pollen or fairies or dust, not as much anyhow. You should be glad: grateful.
Grateful to Mars! not even GREATful, like I am - you're ripping off your tape-mask, you're stomping it on the door, jumping at the door. It's locked, remember? - alright, you're unlocking it, opening it, slamming it shut after you - hey you! whatcha doing, you're escaping. You've escape.
You didn't even leave me no iota of licorice.
Don't think that all the flowers in the world are pretty! They're not; they are little lures that prevent you from having a clear view in life. They stink and foul up your nostrils. In fact, you'd better stay inside, safer that way.
Safer but to what extent? What shall entertain you? (you sure are needy.) Sometimes I find that a little piece of licorice will do the trick. Just shove it up your mouth canal and you shall be sated. For then, anyway.
Or take a foot or so of masking tape and wind it around your head to look like you are ready for Halloween. It's not really too hard, and wastes negligent amounts of natural resources, which means people won't starting attacking you and blasphemizing the name your mother so carefully chose out for you. I am simply looking out for your best interests here.
The bees don't attack the flower or disown it (which is what you should do, you); they manipulate the flower, use it for their own petty little gains. Which is alright, anyhow. I guess this is the efficiency clause of this argument. Or you could say it's the second choice. There are always choices. Sometimes one means death or being taxed or being terrible hurt or going to jail, but choices. They're alway present. Unless you make one that makes you stuck. But that's not wise; I don't advise you doing that.
Not that you know how; you are holed up in your room wearing a bit of masking tape around your head (not enough: you want the whole head to stick with it) and chewing on a piece of licorice. Give me what you have left of it, alright? I have a penchant for licorice, I'm quite partial to them.
It doesn't even make sense. Maybe you should go back outdoors, get some fresh air and germs and suicide. I haven't even put you in here for two hours and you're already looking peaky. No, though!; outisde means trees and bees and flowers; outside means manipulation and pollen and all sorts of wacky abominations. Like Frankenstein, or the Yeti, or frankinscense et myrrh. I can hardly say that. Here, you are safe. The safest of the safe, like a safe. This room's a safe; actually you are the contents of that safe. And I'm like the lock. You sure are special. I'm not lock to everybody. You're special.
No, but what's that unhappy exression on your face...hey, I've already made the choices for you; you just have to sit back and relax. Enjoy your room and the view, remember? No pollen or fairies or dust, not as much anyhow. You should be glad: grateful.
Grateful to Mars! not even GREATful, like I am - you're ripping off your tape-mask, you're stomping it on the door, jumping at the door. It's locked, remember? - alright, you're unlocking it, opening it, slamming it shut after you - hey you! whatcha doing, you're escaping. You've escape.
You didn't even leave me no iota of licorice.
