She has a very fat finger, her chubby little digits, and she tried to dial me, booty call or begging or something, such as "to all things a bright begging", "look at my titties", trying to dial me, and instead mistakenly dials the Goodwill store at Latta, and yells obscenities at the volunteer that answered the phone. (Editor's Comment: "Sausage Fingers")
Moral of the story: I don't hear all that sh*t and noise, not all the time, and sometimes, waste materials fuel this great furnace anyway, and make me come back so much very much stronger and more intent.
I be she'll start wearing a suit of armor like a knight in a fairy tale of old, anything, as I said of Rockingham, the conspiracy to keep me from opening one up, and yet, 7 am, the unlocking of the doors, I was already there afresh and ready to do my thing, all up in her business, dead-on green.
The Stewart Cosworth-built-and-designed so-called "Ford" V8 world championship engine. The 2300, the later 291, superior respiration in the engine, making a power-to-weight ratio, and power-to-displacement ratio that made many engineers shake their heads in abject awe.
Think of it, across town the 327 cuber is basically a grocery getter for soccer moms, and inarticulate little matriculation that packs-up panty-hose and kid snacks, while in the other universe, not Saginaw, but Dearborn, the 327 is a fire-breathing monster that bests sometimes even the modern 380 from Saginaw.
I put her panties, her soiled undergarment, replete with their own preloaded accusations and evidences, on the radio antennae of my Tree Fif.
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