I'm here to make you forget that you don't

I'm here to make you forget that you don't believe in angels anymore.

Friend, who's a Facebook nut, and ask if that's ever happened to them, but they would know about as much as I did. Then, I returned to my messenger app, and the weirdest thing

is actually speaking to people face to face. It's gross actually. You can see their nostrils and hear them breathe. Sometimes you can ever smell their breath. GROSS! Bodies disgust

me. They make all sorts of icky noises and ooze all kinds of substances. No way. When I marry, it will be strictly by phone. I will consummate by phone, have kids by phone, and

commit adultery by phone, inevitably leading to divorce, also by phone. It's not that I don't seek human contact, well actually, I don't, I have intense OCD. I don't like contact,

I'm allergic to nuts, and I always use the Oxford comma. I'm proud of our family name, even though it is holding me back in my career. Just because it's "Splatterfest" doesn't mean

we're down market Smuckers-wannabes. We don't care if you buy the slogan, even though it is true. There are no nuts in our nuts. Even the yahoos in Cambridge know what I am saying.

The Cambridge lot drew together and burst into unexpected hiphop. "I say, you good ol' cha-ARGHHH." Charlie the Oxford Alligator feasted happily on their genitalia.

Charlie was chewing a scrotum when he choked. Alf the wren flew down his throat and retrieved it, saving him. Alf then broke the 4th wall: “Sorry. I know this fold makes no sense."