You. Are. Out.

Having BIG debates:

Overhaul is imminent. Not scared of: direction.

Over talked compromising in head post shouts to encourage empathy but otherwise complete lowering of ability to be right in an argument that it not perfect logic or mathematical in nature.

The General Rule:
Two consonants following a vowel invariably make said vowel short.
Tilling. Milling. Swimming. Twitter.

Am feeling angular. And specifically expanded beyond the usual three dimensional quadrants.

Equations in reality, combined with uncanny complimentary notions, an astute ability to suck at essays and the highest expectations to be the novel you’ll never write equates a debate in the head that is symbiotic like invisible best friends in your head at five.

Practical Betty. Has spilled some milk.
And something now means nothing and those things pushed far back are now asking “What for” with no proper answer and Betty doubts common sense (but never intuition, and as such floodgates of the spurned illogical notion of stature and longevity are now everywhere like zebra mussels but less menacing and less overpowering.)

BLAST IT.

There is no going where there are too many directions with out reasonable elimination and I adamantly refuse to:

Two cigarettes sir let me hear you cough sir you sound very bad sir go to the doctor.