frisson imagnetique; drops of honey drowsily drooping from an ear lobe.

I saw Paige on AEW with the eye make up and the milky white skin and the cascade of midnight colored hair.  My manhood rose up so suddenly, it almost flapped my eyelids like wild spinning window blinds: it was the coherence and cumbersome ease of sociology in the western world.

Why, we didnt need sociology or HR; we needed anthropology.  We needed the symposium when we had chosen the ampitheater, and the stoa when we had chosen the cinema varete of streaming enigmatically prolific and abundant data--lifetimes of it.  It had come across that SQL remote pull sessions costed hundreds of dollars from disinterested third parties; they had free trial periods, but it was so off putting as to make one forget and yearn for the server-in-the-bathroom of yesteryear.

I wotted a kind of netherworld, a space of odd gravity pockets, where spoken words were not heard, they found no purchase, but the thunk word was far more substantive, it lived and breathed like a monster created in secret, but on the escape and quite frankly, running amok.

I had fallen in with an institute of higher learnings, talking of self-evident objective truths, self-evident good, and so forth, but they would spam me talking about various sins of Mrs Bacon, and the high virtues of Anne Hathaway, how MSNBC set out to renovate culture by uprooting the whole thing, a stripmining of objective good to encapsulate spores on the winds.  Indeed, I wondered how the organization line devolved and coalesced from outling Plato to soapboxing for political movements.  Such wears my a$$.

But anyway, I had noted some leadership advice, one that capitalizes on a trait that I have, and one dictum also that notes addressing a deficit in my capacities.  A boost from unch, and a boost on a flaw.  It said I should learn a new skill to help my business.

I expect they say that to all the single men.

I expect, they found, beside the stored Stingray, a classic 12 ounce canned Yoohoo.

I expect Paige would get bored with the wrong man.

Somebody got bored with the yoohoo, like Alberto, absentmindedly lopping off his toenails, those falling in the loop-pile, and it seems those academics in that online college got bored with surveys of Plato and the others, longed for something more contemporary, something of the day, the present hour, something that reeked and cowered from the groans of the present age.

Of these things, there have been glimpses, kind of titilliations, hints, peepshows, and outright marketing campaigns.  Fundraising letters that want the peanut gallery to toss their remaining empty peanut hulls into the bullring.  They repaved Rockingham: the artist formerly known as North Carolina Motor Speedway.  Of bullrings, i suppose a few I have seen with my own stupid eyes.

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