Tip Of The Tongue Hurts

copetín

health, or be in good condition, despite the redundancy, health, yes that is good. Getting a check and being told that you have good heart, you're going to go pish like a camel, the pressure is good, and cholesterol, which is not going to blow up some metal fuselage of life amidst a Garche or discussion. But for that to happen, for that to happen, you have to eat only fruit, and lunch, if possible, a celery after shove it up your ass, and am going to have to eat a yoghurt you impulse to shit till you drop, and then you can shit gratificarte with a glass of cranberry juice or rub with a slice boobies watermelon. On Sundays you can eat two or three teaspoons of ice cream, not the soup spoon, the coffee spoon.
Having money is great, money is the best thing that could happen here in the West more or less civilized, on this side of the counter. If you have money you can buy a pair of shoes made from skin of male cheetah's ass, and take a Pommery Brut Royal sitting on a terrace overlooking the sea, and manage over one hundred and fifty miles per hour your Audi A4 to be feeling in is infinitely better than being outside, for ever and ever. But for that to happen, for that to happen, you'll have to buy or sell any merchandise until you absurd heart bursts like a frog that just give a vicious kick against a socket, you'll have to go to an office until you know if you prefer that it is day or night, you'll have to wait at an airport smell to chew the damn air plane that never comes. Having
love, ah, love this balm, this nectar, the caress of the hand of a god. See your wife asleep on any given Sunday, his mouth just slightly open and disheveled hair, and you know precisely where in the world where you want to be, that morning and it was worth the wheel and fire and two thousand years of civilization. The embrace of a child that hangs around your neck and kisses face and you're a colossus, you're a mountain, you gave life and receive life and is so cute it makes you want to laugh out loud, while the window comes a magnificent sun. But for that to happen, for that to happen, you have to put up with a nagging woman and for ever annoyed that even knows the reason for their anger, for some twenty years or maybe more, have to go to the supermarket as a pathetic pilgrim and load the car with bags after they tell you that you were wrong, you forgot, you're a jerk without a soul, you have to stoop and gather the turd of a pet that no longer bother to wag his tail when he sees you, have to do as usual, as always, until they give more, for only then do it again, again.
Health, wealth, and love, of course. I make the invoice to the final consumer.