Either I’m losing it, or cute, little, pixie-cut fairies fly into my corner while I sleep to take up my slack.
I’m riding the fantasy swing, soaking Petty, and torching acorns, when the sudden urge to edit my busking Playlist hit.
To skip to the Trump-beef of the burger, there are 4 songs I don’t recognize. Apparently, I’ve completed lyrics to works I don’t remember writing.
Actually, a couple of them are backwoods and bluesy, so it was probably some 70’s stereotype afro, black beauties who crept in the window. Seriously; one of them could be banger, if, indeed, I knew how to bang.
Until then, I’ll just keep lightly tapping that f*cker on my end.
Are these the beginnings of the nursing home admittance application process?
Dude; what if I end up doing a residency at the home, like those old crooners do on cruise ships or in Branson?
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