Because, like all women, you're attached to pathetic monologues concerning your womb with a fucking umbilical cord.
You drag it around like the entrails of whatever wartling you paid, like, 300 dollars to destroy trailing behind you--don't think I didn't already read about your oh-so-tragic abortion.
Hark-- and what do mine eyes, twinkling like stars in these tangled woods, perceive:
and my arctic shoulder back then wasn't a little more each day, it was one big swoop with a big sharp knife, accomplished in an afternoon, for approximately $300. call me practical.
See?
You're like my mother hogging the floor whenever the word 'pregnancy' pops up.
You had an abortion-- I just farted. So?
Nexus:
Let me chode you a question.
Mwaha...
For those not 'in the know'-- he's mimicking a Negro slaughtering the English language with "Let me told you a question"
How long have those adaptive protocols been commencing?
I don't see what I just quoted.
I refuse to see it.
Therefore, Occam's razor: it does not exist.
Anyway, this is interesting:
the only thing immaturity has to gain is maturity and sadly enough, some people don't ever get it.
So, Miss Lory.
Define maturity and your claims to being, shall we say, 'it'.
Then, define "Art"
