Men do “mingle” when they’re Single like me, all without sum BOOTIES (no more Botox Rehabilitation, left leg...)

A sucker sniffing “Duster” I’ve never huffed or puffed around a stench of a slice ‘o’ dat stinky cheese—I smell nice with Gillette under-arm where you swipe the gel on, to get along, rough and ready to rocksteady Rockstar drinks—I have Low-Carb Monster and Diet Red Bull, to fill a fat SOLO Cup when the fill to the top, that’s enough ’n’ stuff to be healthy as a whey protein shake, and I once had “Cake Flavor” and “Cocoa Pebbles Flavor” to savor the sips of chocolate fudge and flavored—Allah and Jehovah and God amount to—“The Savior”—with no Jesus present in my Tantric happenings but I once felt the Holy and Bright Lighting Bulbs at various Tanning Salons, check my voicemail intro where “IT’S ON!” being with how I got it on with a new cellphone “23” today with Gucci handle (alwayschillen) (and my “JMRQ Heavy Industries” on Google) and no solar panels of an artist painter (ME) and several filled Canvases—calling bodily-Cancer to the late Mickey Mantle—I remember Rookie 1952 Topps card, sold for $40-kay, decades ago—opt for trade—the Yankee’s have it made, with pro-baseball being played... like the Tesla “Plaid” Elon Took interest from Spaceballs, “PUNCH IT CHEWEY!” with thee to share my chocolate chip granola bars—Mom and Dad bought me—and Dad opened the cardboard container (but Brother Justin has Coronavirus and he should be in “A Containment/Confinement CoVid-19 “Repository” because it effects The Respiratory System...), having once played via Nintendo (hint-hint $64,400 each, mostly mine) Game Console with Mario Brother(s) Justin Marquis and the Catholic “Brothers” at my Saint John’s High School, Class of 2000, what a year to graduate and then become full of anx-IETY in the CITY of Boston, Mass, able to eat any of the whole-some sweet food in the luxury, cooked-up hook-up of the Dining Hall, and Beantown chilly in the Fall of the Yearly circulatory Planet URF trip around the Sun, how about that one?

Circular answer to uplifting Orbital the sewer-sludge streetside “Lids”—with my Polo hat by the stairs—yes I feel so fantastic with my wearing mostly Polo (like Dad today!) worn winter hat when chilly, a silly salamander with what but my John Deere “Stocks” predicted its profits, when I’ve heard enough Deary Mom reading her books—but my parents don’t really read my writing, that’s delightfully crafted, with them maybe viewing this soon, “Carry A Spoon” or FORK of my Traumatic Brain Injury www.wrxtbi.com