There's a song. It says sunny, with a high of 73. I wanna go there. The forecast next week, DISMAL WITH A CHANCE OF FALLING ICICLES. Chyeah, really. Today's a storm of freaking hail, but that's not something to post about. When you bite the hand that feeds you, bite it until it bleeds, it still slaps you in the face.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
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