I Am Now Your Own Private Spook BrigadeDanielle Pafunda
Check me, fun wig candy spun ringlet red to ultra, a peignoir smocked breast tattered ladder stitch ribbon greased up hem, reflective glasses from the chop cop. Nothing, though, 'til you see my stickware. Dinner's under the sheet. Squirmy, fixed yet. A ring of salt, charred some, table's edge. I'll have you know it's a stew. A grim little sliver that fits the ignition, a grape scented fibrous gallon of puncture. A tutelage ripe in fringe sanitation, don't you tell me I never you nothing you did.
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