Dear Diary,
This morning as I sit here with a lack of inspiration, it is not due to a sense of desperation.
When I think of my consternation, it causes a mild case of perspiration.
Because of the application of a pseudo starvation, which is somewhat like vegetation, I have changed the equation that is me.
Admiration of Sons of Anarchy.
Formation of the Sons of Apathy EBG.
Celebrations have not yet been earned.
Relations with fast food have been burned.
Vacations have been taken.
Heart agitation due to bacon.
Cohabitation with donuts and Sprite and TLO.
Conversations with alcoholics.
Tintinnabulation, AA stories and happy time frolic.
Preparation leading to a better me.
Contemplation of what I eat, allows for a smaller seat, in which I get to place my somewhat smaller a**.
Cultivation of my diet, means I no longer start a riot, when I can't get to a cookie in training class.
Coronation of a king on his throne
Allegations that I write this from my toilet.
Alliterations of my own.
Recommendations that I take my diary and boil it.
No more sensations of a scratch to itch.
Realization that dear Diary, you're a f***in b***h, and I don't give a f*** what you think.
Ovations for me, not for you, actually thats not really true, when I think of all the s**t you've taken from me (like sugar).
Appreciation should be the word, though it is somewhat absurd to think I'm grateful to you, but I am.
My f***ed up imagination.
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