The first real girl in Issue #1, And hell--the Baroness was Dominatrix School Teacher, whipping for fun; Thus, enlist in adventure if healthy and sure, Better than me with a hot girl score; Regardless, wending through puberty with Reagan at the helm, Was a patriotically true, television realm.
"-Blood and Chocolate- Review" During a gastrointestinal flare of pain, blood, and fecal-like mucus being cruelly evacuated, when I believed Tony Romo might win it all and wink deliciously at the lascivious ladies, I read "Blood and Chocolate" and was not rewarded with what I wanted. I wanted, of course, a bit quirky mixed in, and heavily. For what is a psychotically-driven tale of things macabre without a neurotic personality living within the dynamic danger? Nevertheless, I liked it, minus the fact that my intestinal tract was giving way. Meat Boy. Don't underestimate a Meat Boy, especially if he has a crazy compulsion to slay werewolves, like Jango Fett besting many Jedi. And the epic classicism of the Young Adult horror/love story is amazingly alive. The pull of the quintessential wolf, driving one to dreams of hunger and pack synergy. It's in there. Classically--in every form of the word. So, if you're reading about werewolves under Full Moon or any neon brag of moonbeam; next, purchase this book. Totally.
"Barney Miller Werewolf doohickey video" I can't find the entire comedic rant here 'bout Lycanthropy; still, it exists in time and space--I think so, kinda. Dislodged myself from Twitter, terrible trolls hacking; alas, some trolls are quite exotic and corporeally pleasing, in grotesque yet sexxa manner. So, here's a gregarious glimpse into the social aspects of a New York Group of Detectives around mojo mystical things and the Carter Administration time period:
"Jazzmin Flush (22)" "Canada is darn cold; still, the Chief did scatter there after flying over the Cuckoo's Nest." Girthy Gilda lamented while sucking down the anti-oxidant properties of tobacco burned carcinogenic. But Jazzmin Flush needed steel; specifically, Steel and Mercy. Indeed, Thomas' body had succumbed in silly fashion to spontaneous combustion, and he didn't even drink cocktails and burn butts simultaneously; moreover, Jazzmin Flush knew he was high into the arctic, haven forgotten his untransfigured humanity, back when his Pap Pap used to get up at the whip crack of dawn every dandy day, just to see what Ginger Zee was wearing, always hoping for the ashtray look of a leather skirt; still, cherry lipstick stains on a butted out, green-colored, menthol filter look awfully sexxa in an ashtray. Regardless, Jazzmin Flush was back-packing Canadaways. "Take a knife with ya, at least. I got a zombie blade--lime-green from surgical steel in China's fine land, and people says if it be made in China it sucks. Hogwash, they got one of the best space programs in this Global, Autonomous States of Federation." Girthy Gilda wise, puffing always, closer to death, to freedom . . . "I'll be safe Girthy Gilda. And I love you too Fredrica." Jazzmin Flush embracing her two buds. Then, Girthy Gilda with one last zinger. "Honey, don't sweat the hams and jams. They all got coming: A Rude Awakening."
"Jazzmin Flush (21)" Thomas ascended beyond the Tree Line--Northwards, truly; thus, armed with shorter ears and double insulation, surviving epicways, mythical--this new, benevolent beast of his eagerly examined the Arctic Beauty in glacial pond of frozen blue, shimmering him azure-hued, all around; next, a howl as the eyes squinting from ultra-chilly winds commanded an in-the-character scream, reminding the frigid atmosphere that there was NO Lion King here--only him, living off the Spirit's water, existing without the big game hunt, though the mercurial hop of a quick-footed rabbit might hit the belly spot. Jazzmin Flush's visitation, hovering love above, dirty-blonde cascading downwards upon Thomas' healing flesh, weirdly, rapidly, igniting another person almost--reborn from the carnivorous cruelty of it all--now: paw pads on internal command, healing always, especially when under any Moon's magnificent might and luminous light.
"Jazzmin Flush (20)" Jazzmin Flush danced with dexterity workways, magically moving with fun flash and cool kick--liking herself in heart-shaped love; on the contrary, Girthy Gilda and Fredrica were weeping woefully within the grease-fumed taco truck; next, they spilled the sadistic news. Last night, Thomas was mutilated--rancorously ruined were Fredrica's words through a tear-stained face. Vicious thugs shadowed Thomas to his humble trailer where they then brutally beat his facial features in, breaking bone and rearranging cartilage; furthermore, they knocked his screaming scrotum northwards, up into his entrails, and left a note for Jazzmin Flush, it salaciously saying: YOU DO NOT DESERVE LOVE--NOR HIM!!! Jazzmin Flush crashed down in anxious tears, like Christ crying for a fallen Lazarus, wishing bodily regeneration, yet knowing Thomas was, most likely, even more crippled for life. But, with love's telepathy, hearing Thomas at the hospital, she wisely surmised the optimism of the forever-fluxing Holy Spirit--it or Thomas mumbling: "Canis lupus arctos. Canis lupus arctos. Spirit wolf, into me without the mammalian terror of pure carnivore. Platinum form of Canis lupus arctos; Spirit of God . . ."
"Jazzmin Flush (19)" Jazzmin Flush, without being a bold makeup junkie, convinced Thomas by way of naked eyelash flux to take her out and enjoy a nocturnal night in the liberty-loving City of Angels. As a result, he, the male, picked the enchanting entertainment and cheap cuisine--since he worked on a taco truck. Thomas, not holding her angelic hand, but awkwardly escorting her quasi-winged shoulders, took her to a corn dog stand, not the kind that served rotten rat on a stinky stick, but the mechanically-separated chicken gelled with not-haunted by demons swine; thus, the twosome both crossed their fingers as they indulged in Christ breaking the Food Laws. Afterwards, two rainbow-flavored lollipops were innocently sucked; next, an amphitheater visited, where the Modern Gallagher smashed seedless, organic watermelons, inspiring gentle madness as the eager audience enjoyed aqua with anti-oxidants if fortunate enough to catch some yummy chunks between their chompers. Walking her back to her basement, Thomas noticed Jazzmin's thick, muscular stems glazed by the California Sun. "Uh, Jazzmin, I think you're too much of a pretty package for me." Jazzmin blushed. "I'm just a quirky girl is all." Thomas winced. "I think I feel gooey inside, like creamy cotton candy--and it frightens me." Jazzmin Flush stole a mercurial smooch, and darted into the basement, fabulously phased by her first, real kiss. Thomas looked into the star-kissed sky. "Lord, is it okay if I really, really like a cool girl? I mean--I'm just a dumb monk after all." And a deep, nurturing voice outside and inside of Thomas, a perfect psychotic synergy, verbally offered: "You are a dumb monk Thomas, but--you got couth!"
