Gory

So folks in the guise of penning something from muse and drafting out of the box sentences, may I flicker about to jot rotten phrases? In the guise of ingenuity, may I deface the language? Would you allow me to let open the floodgates to buffoonery?
For in the guise of this inappropriate, only can I down tread the lame clock time which has just whizzed passed on me. In the process, though, to you noble soul who has just bestowed his or her eyeballs on this text, I must also be profusely grateful. But am I? Am I already not smeared enough to be expected to be sugary mouthed or any gracious. Each one of you is a star of your own little romantic comedies, and can locate rejoice, regardless of the ugliness that takes shape at times.
Allay those curves of emotions but. I wish it were, so much I do, but this is not some text which would entertain you in leisure, but a careless yet considered account of perennial dismay, of which even I myself am exhausted to speak of. But you see I will keep on with the flutter. Even the pen seems to give me a wry sarcastic expression, and tries to break away, but it does not realize, this shit is not some ink or the nib. It’s the mind that pens, pen pens the brain, so whatever the snob pen ‘feels’, may well take a backseat. Its emotions will certainly be taken account of, be given a thought or two, but would promptly be discarded; for there are more reasons in this world than there is material to write. And this shit is so true even if read back from the ass of the sentence.

Only last night, in the bar right across my hall, did I bump into some pretty females who look better than themselves in that kind of a low roof friendly bar. Symmetry on skin is som rejoice forever.

They also sell the liquor there at subsidized rates. Well beer lets you bear whilst you’re there, but not after a point of intoxication. Hapless and not helpless are the senses for what they see is but seemingly faith. Fine events usually harm more than the grave ones. Just stare back into your life events. The bad ones are bad and you know they are, for they are not robed. And if anything they bring a smile now. But when some assumed seminal event of bliss, caricatures into tons of gruesomeness, the idea settles fairly layered in the head. No moment of pure elation is unadulterated, if not by anything else, by the idea of death of itself.