🚀 go-pugleaf

You're terribly mistaken about the "better times & better things to
do", "real time" (et des ans) is the only possible candidact for the
"better time" slot, and as for the "better things", well, they just
don't get done, as, having been so regrettably impolite as to accuse
you of not having time, I could hardly pull the same woebegone-fishing
plaints, even if I wanted to, which, no mistake and no nasty comments
from you, please, I do not.  Thank you for my explanation.  Prague,
I've heard of, yes; where it is is another matter.  Bali, I think,
was the last rilly strange place I looked up for one (1) inexplicable
obsessieving unreason or another, I forget exactly.  Oh, and, ahem,
<<<<darling>>>>, I did not seek you out, I was addressing Daniel; if
you just wish to... no, what I want to say is that noise-pollution, if
it had to be that, is as acceptable as you say it is, and, in publicly
private conservatics, it's won me a desiderated x-rated kingdom of tes
yeux, I think.  (Or so she wished.)  For one (1) confusedated by the
nature of exaggerated fictive festivity, the Enemy (cr)edible is a
very beautiful conceptitude; having marked out the boundaries of my
world in the distances of yr stone-casts, how can you suspect that yr
indelicacease could ever be a passant whim?  Fool.  Darling.  I choose
to err on the side of hope: it'll have to be megaphone serenading,
seeing as how my upper storient expressly overlooks the disraeli
boulevard fire-engine route, sorry, I mean gladstone street (drunken
English politicians): out-noise-noise-noise the sirens if you can.  I
shall be dealing most harshly with yr %other% Gaelic ex-fiancillary
persons, who, misrused or not, must sufferment in direck'd pain, LIBWCA-
tactic-like.  And, you, you, you: it is commandatory that you should a
thousand times bother to stew in this kitchen: aim highest and
corrallez-y, bumpety-bumptious on the steepistolic stairway to (how
could you doubt it?) Hell.  "*Where*?"  Why, right here.

H.