“autobiography of a late and compulsive liar” by Troy Baillargeon

I noted many om shanti shanti shanti's
and familiar voices talking to me about how it hurt, immediately followed by onetwo hearty laugh, mon pere shares his " feed me, mama" with me. Ghouls, the all of them, haunting me in black mourning as per my high psycho libre. Pair of noids as all hell came down in free fall. From all directions. Ears as eyes as fearful glancing spheres, all of anarchy once occupied me twice.
 Disappointment. This whole sector of south jersey has fast become a disappointment, this-- the bad saturday of two thousand twelve-- busted bobcat til he went and blew his brains out, cette sacre temps nous sommes dans.

Hot Retail on a Bandwagon over in Turnersville. But she'll do just fine what I need from her. Is here the repress ed and conjur ed night in the living room, la soeur sickavec drink. ellelayser backup resenting
the sober actions of a cornered mind. What does she know about sense?