Cardi B’s new Ferrari with of the double trouble—born TWIN GIRLS babies and with MY STOLEN SPERM—it makes me butter a toast to roast with a pied pickle, in the thicket, being as slow as snails, through Great Jesus Christ’s palms, to read my “The Psalms For Dummies” of crashed wristed wisps of a bunch, my hunch, to eat it for lunch in the KY-gel and ham throughout all the laden Local Area Network (LAN) of my mysterious laptop with 2 internet connections, that makes me wonder, what upper comeuppance sits a pretty girthy (for the girlies) atop a snake in my tenderloin Trousers of rambunctious ramblings to be so ample, astigma, with another mother-hen thee MEN and gingivitis tangled all of the ample FACT: MY TEN BITCOIN WALLETS!
Nor not to me mentioning this, as I’ve made due with a maiden, but her damned, and entranced of these my 2 LIVESTRONG bracelets, somewhat yesteryear obsession with Lance! and then also one of the WSU Cheerleaders I have known and loved, introducing myself and seeing that smile, that glance, standing tall and proud that she had my fullest attention and interested in me, then I waited for her to come—to her dormitory—me standing solitary for a few minutes and then SHE ARRIVED—plus talked talking to her whole family, and her Mom is very pretty (V.P.) the ECM Plastics, Inc. named “Randy” to a golly McNayle and Dan the Man my “Cuz” who did the bidding of me winning with Bitcoin, Etherium... E-T-C “my ‘crypto-currencies’” of 2013 or 2014 investments of having actually known, really speaking to him on the phone, the awesome richest man in the world—my “friend”—my “best friend”—Elon Musk who he said to me, “I already have a best friend, but I can be your best friend every day if you want!!!” He really told me on a very long phonecall, him at an airport, talking to him for 40+ minutes in 2005, when this now I WANT TO SURVIVE once more, as I AM A T.B.I. SURVIVOR!
Gitcha Gitcha, the beautiful girls of this fine world, on planet Earth where my brother Justin, he hurts, corroding lungs and he’s aught to be hung (trousers-wise) when I sing a slung of no cigarettes or cigars—with my healthy lungs but coughing up Bugler tobacco out of a 4” end-pipe, that despite some disapproval of the other “Residents” here at “Averte” in Bradford, Vermont, they aught, they aught to be jealous with my phantasmal “TBI Recovery” I see, and the ways of the days—me now getting up earlier in the days at night, feeling zero relief (albeit with tiny amounts of Bugler) THE DOCTOR WAS FINE WITH IT as I choose to sip the pipe a few times a day, along with nicotine gum, that I don’t smoke much often, and them “Takeoff” in his coffin—a recent death they keep talking about on Hip-Hop Nation today 0-day—me say “Day Oh” and I want to live at HOME in Charlton, MA where I have plenty of money to spare—for a Tesla and a Subaru—plus, buying a house of luxury near my parents: That’s Where I Want To Be!
Mommy! Daddy! How do you beseech thee? when I’m without a $315 Mont Blanc Pen ordered by yours truly, long ago, but not given the IT—my signature so clean, me so clean, and showered off enough, I’m pretty tough to have found the Vaccine injected in my anterior deltoid by a nurse, the shot didn’t hurt a needed needle-prick of 2 Boosters now, and how! 😁
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