The key to my heart is in the hands of my lover, Sgt. Poopykins.
I hope he doesn't lose it in the dirty laundry. Or in the crevice of the couch cushions. Or it doesn't fall through a hole in his pants. Or thrown down a storm drain . . .
. . . if any of the above were to happen, my heart could never be opened again.
I didn't make a duplicate this time.
I hope he doesn't lose it in the dirty laundry. Or in the crevice of the couch cushions. Or it doesn't fall through a hole in his pants. Or thrown down a storm drain . . .
. . . if any of the above were to happen, my heart could never be opened again.
I didn't make a duplicate this time.
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Do you still want a copy of the Wendy O. Williams herstory that I wrote? I need to update my journal with something...