in a THOUSAND delicious, ill-advised ways, a THOUSAND deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children.
The world is at least FIFTY PERCENT TERRIBLE and that’s a conservative
estimate,
though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone THROWN AT A BIRD.
For every loved child, a child BROKEN, BAGGED, SUNK IN A LAKE. Life is short and the world
is at least HALF TERRIBLE, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would BREAK YOU,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real SHITHOLE, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right?