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...just not as clever. Ever since I played football I've been laid up like a crip. I can't even lift my legs to get out of bed. Getting to this chair took so much effort it made me fart. I did manage to get up earlier and get to the tele, but then I had to lean down slightly and turn it on. Needless to say I collapsed in a big, excrutiatingly painful heap on the sofa. The rubbish bags need to be taken out because the smell is making me quite sick - but I fear that if I make it to the bins outside my face will fall in water that's leaked out of the bins and onto the street. Then cats will eat my body and foxes will steal my bones and then everyone will be saying "Where's he gone? One minute he was laying about like Steven Hawking and the next...nothing!". The ultimate irony would be to get Steven Hawking himself to come and join in the search for me with his hi-tech wheels of steel - but my Mum would get confused and go "Son, you've returned". Then Steven Hawking would get MY place at the dinner table and start hanging about with MY mates and start doing things with MY girl. The quadraspazzed dog. My only hope is to get up and actually start doing things to get my body working again - but the chances of that happening are the same as Steven Hawking scoring the winning goal in the Worthington Cup final. Grrrrrrrr, why do I keep talking about Steven Hawking!?!?!?
Y'know, you could to essays on what Sniper says, analysing his thought processes and the way his mind formulates sentences.
monkey man...... whoever that is erm.... i've had sprained ankles twisted angles, thighs strains....... ack.
My cats breath smells like cats food.
Feel, feel, feel, feel, feel, feel, feel, feel, feel, dammit!
...just not as clever. Ever since I played football I've been laid up like a crip. I can't even lift my legs to get out of bed. Getting to this chair took so much effort it made me fart. I did manage to get up earlier and get to the tele, but then I had to lean down slightly and turn it on. Needless to say I collapsed in a big, excrutiatingly painful heap on the sofa. The rubbish bags need to be taken out because the smell is making me quite sick - but I fear that if I make it to the bins outside my face will fall in water that's leaked out of the bins and onto the street. Then cats will eat my body and foxes will steal my bones and then everyone will be saying "Where's he gone? One minute he was laying about like Steven Hawking and the next...nothing!". The ultimate irony would be to get Steven Hawking himself to come and join in the search for me with his hi-tech wheels of steel - but my Mum would get confused and go "Son, you've returned". Then Steven Hawking would get MY place at the dinner table and start hanging about with MY mates and start doing things with MY girl. The quadraspazzed dog. My only hope is to get up and actually start doing things to get my body working again - but the chances of that happening are the same as Steven Hawking scoring the winning goal in the Worthington Cup final. Grrrrrrrr, why do I keep talking about Steven Hawking!?!?!?