what was that? is that all there is? who is this? this is it.

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This is my poem: last word. It goes with the photo for November 1 (in my opinion, which is -- on the other hand --the only opinion I have). Game's on: Yell. Cheer. Time out: get beer. Open fridge. What's that? Smells sick. That's what. Sort of grey. Off. Dead. Like lasagna never had. Who'd have thought? What the fuck? One measly pound. Ground chuck.

copy that, it does go well the shot of Rumberg and is also seasonally appropriate

My favorite imaginary friends name is Clementine. Dreadful sorry Clementine.My bartender Knows her too.

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