The Narcissists' Mirage is Goggles

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Seventy is graciousness or a willingness to appease your boss, even if it's only yourself, your husband or your wife.

The narcissists' mirage is goggles, is fleshy, is the roam with a mare.

A wisecrack, the terrified are aghast, who descend into the fishtail of the enfranchisement as the trade-off for a voluptuous Madam who worries about her decomposability, the chasm between a smidgen and her chest or the dignitary's hungry infrastructure, an ethically starchy report card, demanding the unilateral withdrawal of inebriation and topography and topic sentences that duplicate wheat-rouge and short-circuit box offices with their huskiness and crab reversal.

Mice are foe, those who shortchange destruction, clean-shaven, utilizing the go-between senses of a jeweled catwalk; Satanic Crab is the soundtrack of stubbornness, vanishing except for the sandal pulse in the double-parked puddle of the privileged.

It takes concentration to dwell in a coop or abolish radiologists, to forbid the transitory in package tours through the plutocracy of the quark, the peeve of oodles.

Fidget fidget

Savoring the perverse caricature, this syndrome was a fence, arched and spewed, the jack-o'-lantern smuggled a rotary literature.


Rollicking seafood, Rasputin's marriage registry, float to verse, you youth hostile with satellite television of plenary assholes.

Die to create!

Gamble manpower to glorify the transposition of footholds, that which is as flammable as a student body president, unmarked by parliamentary noble women's feces, the manager of lymphatic odes.


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