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Fucking Wednesdays, A Poem:

People, like I’ve said before: We can get rid of Wednesday. We can. Together we can. We could pass law buoyed by science and lobbied by tobacco and liquor and entertainment  Or we could, if only we had the time. Fucking Wednesdays. I’ve decided to start swearing in my blog. Because confessional. Because Fucking egg I hate Wednesday, and I love beautiful inside jokes, and I love glitter tattoos and I’m counting my blessings now by, by accident and on purpose. My happenstance I happen to like my body know, after some rearranging, and my husband tells me I should tell how great it has been, but those happy testimonials are the mothers of Jealous. Healing well should be kept to oneself, I think. I thinkmemory is a really good story these days.

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I have no time to find a fitting picture for this or to poem my into to the thing. There was canning going on, still, when I got home at 10:20. But, everything is in jars now, thanks to HP and Mom. Two day tomato day. We are not running out. Fuggin’ egg that’s a lot of tomatoes. ‘Night, poemies.

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