Bulgarian PangramNicole Mauro
All I knew was IQ, that mine was a stomach snolly- glostered by food. For a moment I was in someone else’s plush squeaking armchair, located there gluteally where one ordinarily would be who is flummoxed by moving, which was proposed as something I could ‘more of’ be doing even though even I know haste is usual, and the impulse to make it contra- indicated by lodes of modicum and its dated effluvial. ‘Am I going to be carried off as a child’ if I don’t eat all the bivalves on my plate? The schnockered will still lollygag for lieu, the insatiable will buffet after remaining in queue, and the tables will stay, despite the polyglot who says there is no ‘one’ to wait them or logistically move them.
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