We finally had the right Swiss Army blade and gob of Vaseline
to split open the atom Jimmy had plucked outta dem dare frog eggs. Power-up dat fucking piece o' shit solar
TV, Dad bought from that Vietnam Vet
at the Woodbury Flea Market. Finally some awful, hilarious K-Pop where the
albino cock-less wonders with mad eyebrows dally-dance with well-tapered tit-forward
steaming piles of vanilla shit representing duh female form. So gloriously
false and mesmerizingly horrible in our plucky tree house. The reality would
pass the rest of my life as nostalgia forever at odds with its ever-arriving presence.
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