Twice A Dermatologist

The sphere squid’s tentacles pull it up to the water's surface with gay science, looking all the while like the wrinkled folds of eels' bloated corpses, but getting the job done nonetheless. Each time the squid gradually ascends, it will surely pass my drowned dreams as well as the cumulative erosion only made worse by the eruption of Mt. Egg, spraying a terrifying sheet of ice all over the freakin' place.

Following my accident, I could no longer identify rich milk and gravy, nor a plateful of pork smaller than three inches across. Shortly thereafter, I suffered after getting heavily bumped from a favorite establishment for woman drudging, the use of postdialectic objectivism to denote not deconstructivism, but postdeconstructivism, and other additional atrocities not necessarily related to offering pigs greater comfort.