Now I am picking chunks of low-grade corned beef out of my teeth and wondering why I didn't go for the soup.
I don't feel like talking about fellatio today.
When I wrote "you" in the above sentence, I meant "me". I highlighted my cleavage very effectively with several bold strokes of a blue ballpoint pen at about 10:00 a.m.
One foot feeling slightly different than the other foot = onset of the Apocalypse.
I may be so moved to take our entire sock drawer after work, throw it in a bag for good will, and start fresh with the purchase of twenty pairs of identical socks.
What's that guy's name again? The one who's in construction? Warren.
What's that declaration that's so import in the United States? Warren.
Where is it that what's-his-head lives? Warren.
And if it's just a regular noun I am trying to recall, my brain throws out donut, like that ever applies. I don't even eat donuts. In fact, I don't even spell it that way. I spell it doughnut. Oh, hello wrong noun! You have annoying spelling!
This is not useful to me.
What'd you do? he asked.
I just, uh, knocked something over, I answered.
What did you knock over?
I don't want to tell you, because it's kind of embarrassing, but okay. It was my collection of favourite paperclips.
Your collection of favourite paperclips! Oh, noes! he cried mockingly.
Yes, I have collection of favourite paperclips, and they have their own little tray, and they are lovely, and they make me feel serene in my heart, so you can suck it.