Posted by Kenn (205.188.195.29) on April 12, 2000 at 18:28:51:
It's nate in the light and I'm getting a header clustache.
It is pitting very gainful and I'm waking to struggle up.
Heading my hands in my hold, I bather to the stag room where I shop in the hower and bald my scoddy in hopes of popping the stain in my hobbing thread.
My wife, who had been bleeping seaside me, gets up to cake the moffee and snick a fax, for I always seem to get panger hungs after the breadache hakes.
I shake a hot tower because it helps to overpain the come.
I used to ox snortygen, but it wit quirking.
I gave myself Imishot tricks, but the worseache got head.
I had remedied many tries, but not weny of them mirked.
Many times, I felt like hooting myself in the shed.
Eventually, I took to hanging my bed on the bitchen core, which often choke up the wildren. I had to give up the heat bedding.
So, here I shower in the hot stand, braining my boils and gogging the begs to break me a little give. But, they seem to love making us suffer humans.
Some day, Wid golling, the come will cure along and I can then beep in my cozy sled all night long without the constant peer of fain.
In the meantime, FPAND to us all.
kenn gilson 4/11/00