So when someone asks me for the candy apple packs...the same person, the same question...months apart, of which when I call it out and that look...that need to get the hell away from me. I mean, I even suggested you check out the candy apple pops like the last time. Maybe you could melt those down...and I mean, you did ask this same exact question of me months ago, and I have had this happen before, many times over, of which I typically will not recall a damn thing for obvious reasons, considering the love of the hour among a group that even post, high marks at one of the world's best universities...well I mean when a starfish can run the impromptu horseshit, to become the new western measure that reads like kids of corruption. I mean, you can do whatever you like. So by all means, have it all. Here, maybe we can set a new table just for you, then again, you do proclaim to run the show, so by all means, send your needed measure my way, aka anecdotal dribble piss for irrational method, of what one considers assessment, of something I sure as hell know you aren't passing...and I will you know...just remain...pretending. Just for you love. If you can't come up at me direct, well then, I mean, just have folks drop by and run the ol' we are fake bullshit asserting our selves as the assessing measure and yet if we had to compete among these halls...we'd be fucked...but it is a new day for the United States...a new ship of ambition has arrived with all the arrogance a network can muster. I wouldn't want to let you down. So ask away...I just can't remember. Not the Esteps, not Kim's mom, a fifth grade teacher...absolutely none of it...I can't even remember names. I mean, when the IQ's have it. When the impromptu assessment has it...and if I call it, just remember, end the conversation abruptly, attempt to hide the nervousness on the face...and get the hell out of the department. Candy apples. Reminds me of a friend I was in a band with...Harvard grad...much like that Harvard shirt in the department. A lady was taking forever to order, I think she said something absurd like wanting a kung-pao chicken salad when the restaurant menu was a book. His response, yeah I really wish we had candy apples. She was infuriated that he would have the audacity to call out her audacious behavior...she asked for the manager...he came to her side...she remarked how the server, aka the peasant, failed her wishes...she needed him to put up with her shit, and yet, at some point, he called her out and in such a way the manager, couldn't even finish hearing the complaint...
There's just something about candy apples, on top of industrialist horseshit, like meatballs on top of spaghetti, or is it space balls? Naturally, I should forget these things... I think what I was supposed to do, is help the innocent question, the same questions the same person asked months ago, so she can run back to her industrialist cock, and offer you know...SOMETHING....ANYTHING....to an industrialist starfish who just can't stop coming to my place of work, with a voice that carries through the whole half of the store to praise my IQ. Nothing bad there. I mean, like the lady who wants a kung-pao chicken salad when the menu is a book, naturally, I should just let the starfish "feel" smarter, considering I mean she's done such a good job to position herself so well in the mirror. I mean, who could I possibly be in relation? I'm the pauper. I'm in the potato sack, much like the peasant server. To call out that play of candy apples. I mean, nothing Uncle Tom in the building at all, even if one is gunning for southern plantation inc, of modern day times naturally...find your plantation owner now at the humanitarian gala and the KKK fleeced with diversity measure...and I mean, A-Dog, the friend who wished there were candy apples on the menu...I mean, yes, at the time he too was peasant class, so naturally when the material frame doesn't adorn you, magically, your mind is to submit to irrational measure of being...at a loss among the absurdity.
And of course, it could all be one big misunderstanding...I mean when it's all so nice as ice. Sure...let's play it mirror and move along. Art is the focus...indeterminate spaces...though the play, demanding one among determinate space...sure yes, we dance again....let me help you. I just will do my work, let you run the Uncle Tom hit, and I will pretend. I'm just working. No idea what that was at all. I mean there you go starfish. You now have a way toward my impromptu IQ even if you are still full of industrial shit. I guess that means a crew will drop by and reference me as "hey guy" again. Fabulous. I mean if you did that in a officious setting, one would be lambasted, but when the US, on this new GINI coefficient status, and a slew of bad behavior a group can muster toward the have nots is at play, opioid crisis anyone, by all means, you can do anything the fuck you please. Drop by produce run drop your shit my way again and again. Happens all the time. Not like I can't handle the matter, and all with the graceful oblivion your heart desires. Of course, I could always be wrong. What group wouldn't have the best of attentions...I mean when the mirror is your savior. Safehouse. Safe ship.
And of course we have these families over the pond, who recognize something is terribly off among their own group in the United States, and they are getting to the bottom of this obviously. Again, by all means, empowered industrial elite doing all these great fucking things to your so-called people...get your hit in where you can. I'm happy to oblige. Might want to question why that is, but when you are too busy with your dick on expensive shit...live it up loves.
I mean, that same question 4-6 months ago...thousands upon thousands of people served...and typically I wouldn't call matters out...but it was a bit too...absurd. Same question and to the same person...and when I started talking about our last interaction, that face, the fidgeting, the need to get the hell out of dodge..I guess starfish is taking aim...yet again...sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir....that was our first encounter. I guess I shouldn't remember that either.
And who doesn't love a theme. Pat, from Scotland, we met in the East Coweta Middle School Cafeteria...he was in line...he talked about his favorite album, candyass by orgy. I shouldn't remember that either. So many memory problems it seems and yet the anecdotal method of discernment? And then there is that fam with those connections ready to spin the intelligence at all costs...doesn't really matter what is or isn't the case, and yet, when you subject the people who are not to be subject...when matters aren't really aligning...though by all means, I'm here to support. You need a location...I've got my phone...and I mean clearly memorizing all is a priority...I mean to define intelligence in that way, seems problematic, but then again, unless you can match my abilities among official track record...and this just in love, you can't, industrial measure and all. But you do have fuck you money and people who are ready to serve...so have your win in that way. Bravo.
