My Ph. D. "Therapist" loves my writing, seeing him once a week, he's great Dr. Dominic Candido at Enhanced Health, driving a $100,000+ Audi modified!

Wallace’s laces are definitely fair and sweet, taking the heat with a sweeter SWEAT-her of leathered lace, a footsie place, play-land of talking to Eminem and his “Stan” once and again, as friends—I need more friends!—but not the fuck-up’s here routinely calling on an Ambulance to take these fools, thee the tools (to a Psychiatric Ward lol) who yes, yelling and smelling like swine, unkempt behinds, oh there are the “Rinds” and my #1 Rite of Passage that my being Baptized by my late Minister—hey Mister—I say aloud, “My Justine of 2009-2013 she made me proud to pout without a doubt that the life of strife post-TBI, that I would find so someone some chickie would pull and swallow or spit the MY IT, on her bodacious body, oh the folly—when I drank to get drunk, like a listener of Rancid—the musical group, specializing in what sounds to drift and drain, that “Punk Music” causes me pain of not “getting” what they’re mad about—from broken homes and doubts of God—MTV deserves a prod all hard and stiff, if you catch my drift, my fad, so rad to the tickle of my bittersweet pickles liked in a jar, refrigerated and reintegrated to high “WRITING” grades, all facades, and stop it with the prodding when one is limp—unlike Tantric when you never go down, tired tides never receding, late at night and into the morn’ that I would rather have Justine Ara. instead of online showings of skin, I like the older women, the “Step-Mom” jumble in pouted juggs with the day of being tucked into bed, by one sweet Hispanic: “chica” with a kiss on the side of one’s face—goodnight to the Tunnel 2 Towers—a Paraplegic of a purely locked, logic, of his or her MIND like I do—oh you know it too—buttocks in a locket in the backside pocket, of USB struck sticks with a thumbprint—to unlock it—brazen banter of what can’t her, the candor—this when OR... simply and easily open the door if you want the Sum of 2 integers is the Attended-Deficient to solve with a TI-83 calculator and Ritalin—my past-time hoping for Adderall or Dexedrine, to the end, when at Northeastern my parents would spend $90,000 per year, but with the Anxiety Disorder and severe “panic attacks” I denied the brown sugar SMACK and rocky white CRACK in the cylinder of a Turbo Type-R by Honda and or Toyota—I give my worked money to “Toys For Tots” writing in a red ink marker, outside the supermarket, “WHITES ONLY!”

Racism rules, to you equality motherless fools, but subtle so as to remain out of a Radar’s Reach, tossing a peach—brought to the beach—and put in a trash canister of N95’s I bought 200 and they only sent 50—this after buying 250 in 2004 (seriously, in 2004 I bought 250 N95 Masks—SARS...) Bitcoin to Mars with ZERO BARS me bored and oddly un-thirsty for a stiff hard drink to make me think, “Have I had that prescription pill today, whether or not I need it, I take it to the Moon, hungry for a spoonful of lovin’ for what but almost nothing aside from alone-time here with no one near—sneer—sneak—take a peek at my palace place, sitting here and waiting, while the delicious dinner is being Plated, now unto Plato the Asstronomoron Comically “Cosmic” shot while shopping at CostCo—WHERE THE POOR GO!

Helped my brain in 2005, great stuff, amino acids only!

I tried it again in 2014 to 2016, to no avail, it's all fake online now!

My Amazon Vitamins years ago (I worked at GNC before my www.wrxtbi.com TBI and shattered left hip in 7 pieces! when before I was Asst. Manager) I had to throw most of them away and now years later, I have no pills in my apartment here at "Averte"

Look at a small amount of my beautiful Acrylic “Art”:

My self-portrait of a younger me...

Broccoli tree-house and a ladies’ rear

I have more art I’ll post (and boast) my graphical achievements some other time!

The blue Bible is packed with 70+ Sunday Service pamphlets because I LOVE GOD but I'm not a Jesus Christ "believer"

Take Care <3 =D