Christmas is at our throats again.
Passion in a dromedary doesn't go so deep; a camel when it's mating never sobs itself to sleep.
We have no reliable guarantee that the afterlife will be any less exasperating than this one, have we?
Dear 338171 (May I call you 338?)
It is not the eyes of others that I am wary of, but my own.
I'm an enormously talented man, and there's no use pretending that I'm not.