Happy UnSunday.

Good Morning, my heathens. Have you all been well? I’m sorry I’ve been gone for quite some time, dears. I assure you, however, that I haven’t forgotten about any of you in the time we were apart. Time is simply a fleeting being and had beat me two Sundays in a row.

Our current state of affairs is really something to ponder over, my heathens. I, for one, am very fond of doing so with you all. But let us take a break from that. Instead, we’ll ponder over more pointless things.

Such as love.

love is a notion, a musical number, a thoughtless book, an empty word. I don’t really care for it just as I don’t really care for okra or patchouli. It’s distasteful, bothersome, and absolutely illogical. I particularly despise those who become blinded so easily by it, not even bothering to put up a resistance and instead totally and completely falling victim to it. I can’t stand such infectious, incurable viruses.

To let the very word slip off your tongue means to show susceptibility to its effects. Be cautious, all of you. You can be infected right in this very moment and not even know it. Be courteous and meander on over to the nearest quarantine chamber to gas yourself with a numbing solution so that you can stop the spread of such a dangerous infection. Only you can be the cure. Call your local heathens today to receive a consultation. Only you can be the cure.







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