Sometimes the end of nice isn't pleasant. You think you've got it covered and turns out the surprise is what's expected. There are only so many ways you can tell the same story. The last thing you're going for is the sound of one labium queefing. I get that alot. Probably because the choice of modifiers is bottom feeder-like. That's OK, even Emily Bronte's quill had phlegm stains if you looked close enough. I fake nothing here- it's all fake, if fake is pretending you're heading in one direction and at the last second you go the opposite. Head fake. Life's variety is the changing hue brought about when clouds strain the atmosphere. If they're just drawn out head fakes, la-de-dah. It's a treat to figure out what's happening, not an ordeal. I caught myself skipping parts because I thought I knew the perpetrator. Careful reading proved me wrong. I should realize I never guess the ending correctly. But a shrug and a move-on smartly usually gets the next episode started and another ending to figure out. I confess I'm stuck on the reported findings that three vas sprinkles a week puts me with the class who have fifty - 50% lower death rates than lesser ejac guys. Better than even a glass or two of wine a day is good for you. Are they sniper-quality target hitters? Doesn't matter - each day is gold leafed with thoughts of living healthy and also living lon-ng. All in the mother-loving game.