Delicious, don't you agree?
I have never spoken to you before, but we have exchanged conversation through text on a video game forum. I imagine your voice sounds similar to Barry White's.
Where is "Kampuchea"?
You should bring Y to the party. X will have some more company.
GOOD EVENING WHERE WERE YOU THESE PAST FEW MONTHSx
Why thank you.
I only hope so.
The book store clerks would question me.
Yes.. .
He loves it and him, I'm glad to say.
Theodore Roosevelt seems to have that effect on people, Ioan especially.
I could have earned you an A+ if I can actually find myself another copy of Of Mice and Men.
---------- Reading Of Mice and Men ---------- ---------- creative writing ---------- I love your homework.
The homework itself isn't too bad, and thank you. What do you have for homework?
butts .
General homework, along with a History assignment which is actually horrendously easy and some Geography work which I am currently working on.
Story below. Please do not mind it if Open Office raped some of the indenting: Spoiler Pillars of Pumpkins With a sense of elegant care, the man gently placed the rust-coloured pumpkin upon the weathered wooden desk, his own wispy strands of hair a careless whim compared to the callous simplicity of the old wooden shack. With a ghastly sigh of relief, the old man turned from his decorating to look upon the splendour that he had turned his humble home into. Jumbles upon jumbles of scattered wooden benches and shelves held pumpkins of all size and colour; some with dreary faces carved to scare the children, some simply without a face at all. Large strands of thin material made of the rinds of strange fruit graced the ceiling of the micro-sized structure, giving off a very ethereal feel. The entire building was clearly lopsided; an angle perturbed by the fact that the ground was always steep to the west, where the sun set at the end of the day. Among the mess of Halloween decorating that disturbed the usually peaceful demeanour of his home; the man tiptoed his way around the stacks of pumpkins, looking to find a way towards his prized pet and only friend, Mr. Virgil. “Mr. Virgil, where did ya gone off to?” The old man called out. His composition of thick voice and slight accent travelled upon the breeze throughout the room, tendrils searching for the small ears of his friend. “Right here, sir!” Replied the inhuman, coarse squawking of the voice that beckoned for the old man. Upon the gracing of the familiar voice on the old man’s ears, he quickly and messily scattered himself over to the source, knocking over a few decorative pumpkins in his rough tumble towards Mr. Virgil. The man's melancholic face let out a huge, yellow-toothed grin as he approached his good friend. He held out a shrivelled, ghastly hand in a simplistic gesture of greeting. Mr. Virgil, in turn, gave the man an affectionate literal “peck” on his hand. One would expect without not first seeing whom Mr. Virgil was, he would simply be a normal human man. However this Mr. Virgil was not another dusty human, but a bird; a relatively large, green-feathered parrot with a wide yellow beak as if a miniature banana had found its way to the creature's face. The bird's black bead-like eyes looked around with an extreme sense of perception and a quiet quickness that seemed to be scanning for some sort of obscure material object. “What?” Asked Mr. Virgil, cocking his feathered head sideways. “I is been looking all over for ya!” Replied the man, waving around his arms in emphasis as if crazed. “We is finished the Hallo'een decorating and them children will be here any moment now!” Mr. Virgil, as if in a gesture of solemn contempt, looked down at the dust-strewn floor. “Oh yes, the children,” He stated with a touch of scorn in his voice. “The children, always the children. The children should be here any minute.” It was clear that the man ignored the slight venom in the voice of his friend. “Ah, ah! I mus' get ready for em' an' give them the sweeties!” Looking towards a large pile of stacked pumpkins, he quickly cleared them away with a swift and violent strike from his forearm, many rolling to the floor whilst others smashing to the ground with a loud thump, breaking into splatters of gelatinous inside and hard orange skin. Beyond the mess was a dusty wooden door, windowless, with a sheer obliviousness of water wear along its edges. The hinges of the door were a rich and jagged brownish rust, coating the metal with a dirty grit. The man slowly opened the door, a deathly cracking creak wailing out in despair from the weary metal. The crowded wooden shack was immediately filled with rich, liquid white light; this portal to the world outside cast an ethereal light glow upon the unkempt stacks of pumpkins towering high above the shining wooden desks and shelves. Mr. Virgil let out an impertinent dry squawk, somewhat blinded by the rush of uncompromising light. The man, seething with a horrid grimace, slowly stepped outside. The man was astounded by what he saw beyond him. A bracken moor, barren and grey with the only company of scattered stones and dry, rugged crevices in the broken ground. With widened, partly bloodshot eyes, the man quickly and jauntily ran a dusty distance out into the lifeless blighted world. The sky was a drab, colourless orange that cast a deathly gaze upon the land. Though it was quite bright, there was no visible sun to speak of. The man turned around to where his old shack was. Beyond it he saw more moor; empty, barren land that seemed to stretch on forever. Where was the neighbourhood? The forest to the east and the small, red-bricked houses that were directly to the left of his humble home? The laughter of children and the bouncing of their giant orange-like basketballs hitting the rough pavement that covered the driveways of the small homes? Where were the group of local old men whom would take quick strolls through the street, commenting on the playful residents and letting out hearty laughs that were lined with age and experience of the older days and simpler worlds. It had all disappeared. There was nothing, not even a ruin or acknowledgement of the small little town ever existing. Slumping down to his bare, wrinkled knees, the man looked with desperate, distraught eyes for any sort of indication of civilization. This once joyful, jovial soul had finally been reduced to but a shell; his old frame a now whimpering heap of burgeoning misery and nihilistic realization of how insignificant he was and had been. But, it was then, perhaps through some sense of insanity or a jolt of heartening significance, the man quickly lifted himself up from the dead ground and began to run back to his lone shack in a shaky and unkempt way. His quaintly long beard almost trailed behind him at his increasing speed. He reached the disturbed wooden entrance of his old wooden shack, the door still open and slightly bent as he had previously left it. Scuttling inside, a re-emerging sense of joy slowly overpowering him, he closed the door, blocking the bright light of the moor and entering sheer darkness. It took some time for the man's eyes to adjust to the cold blackness of the room, but his overpowered emotion could not hold it any longer. “Mr. Virgil!” He called out with vigour. There was no reply. “Mr. Virgil?” Repeated the man. “Say somethin'!” Still, no answer. Not even a slipped squeak. A sense of dread began to fill the man. He helplessly began calling out the name of the only friend he ever had, to no reply. As his eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, he noticed that his good friend was gone. The only disparate company he had in the silent room were the towers of cold, unfeeling pumpkins that filled the small area. The man now looked at Mr. Virgil's perch with weary, tired eyes. In only a few minutes he had experienced a bone-crushing realization, one that washed over him like a drudging tidal wave. Halloween will not arrive. It will never arrive. He was finally alone in this world.
My motivation for becoming a Premium usually dwindles or rises depending on what is going on at the time. I will reach Premium when I am finally...
Just be lucky it isn't the Spanish Flu.
