So. I'm having a bit of a birthday on Sunday. And as with most years, my birthday is one of the more fundamental ways in which I mark the larger stages of my own personal development. A time for reflection and for resolution. As such, my birthdays are, by and large, a complete motherfucker on my emotional state, as they probably are for most of
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Anyway.
The desert calls to you. Yet you never answer.
I still haven't read your novel. You know you want me to. Because I'll actually be mean about criticizing your cliched bits of prose and shallow attempts at humor, your little bleatings of "I'M AN ARTIST" will be nothing compared to my utter refusal to acknowledge your scribble as any more than just dementia seeping into your already pale existence. And you'll like it to.
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And yes, the desert calls to me..and says, "I am very hot. Stay far, far clear from me."
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so happy birthday.
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<3
Thank you, Kami
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