waning years into the assembly of the patent-leather-office. Do you know what you've done? Do you know where your towel is? This is your aftermath, your coveted benchwarmery of the apostalypse...and you're just germinating spinelessly into the velvetry of neuroscience. Your amphibivalence is a pity, you have the mystery of time RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU STARING YOU IN THE FACE and what do you do? You blink, and you miss it. What the hell, I beg your indulgence. Two archives in archrivalry, a veritable miniseries of cowboy-midlife-chryslerism. It's a mid-wife c[h]ris[tm]is! From the font of your babbling brook, I drink a toast to your temeritous tundrific prenatal haggling-fits. Who else could talk $5 off the price of an eskimo's ice-maker BEFORE HE WAS EVEN BORN? Your lack of skin should be no obstacle on your journey to financial success. But you are too PINK!! Megatron rejuvenate, it's a pop-up-culture these days now! I prey for all of you, lest you pray on me.