When I was fifteen and had quit school forever, I went to work in a vineyard near Sanger with a number of Mexicans, one of whom was only a year or two older than myself, an earnest boy named Felipe. One gray, dismal, cold, dreary day in January, while we were pruning muscat vines, I said to this boy, simply in order to be talking, "If you had your wish, Felipe, what would you want to be? A doctor, a farmer, a singer, a painter, a matador, or what?" Felipe thought a minute, and then he said, "Passenger."
I think of all the ways happiness makes me cry with the buttered sanguine tears of dysfunction...
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Anyway beard-noob, I'm OB; original beard! I'll have my beard/companion/time saving device long after you fashionistic flip-floppers have returned to your smooth cheeked lady-winning ways.
While I'm currently deigned the movie I was finally able to acquire my own copy of the 300 book (at a surprising reasonable price). It was love at first sight. I tenderly caressed my way through its glorious pages until sated we spooned for hours.
I plan to see it again tomorrow.
it really would be great living back there
kiss for you lovely