Peteroo's Blog

Stingrays in amour agree that posthaste swimming thither, an auto-less make-out point with a better view, is more likely to unite a pair in a sea of love during their healthspans and, thusly, lead to optimal nuzzle-fans, though Batoids feeling affinity–regardless of locale–are likely impermutable regarding their tendencies to flutter fins fantastically amidst those they fancy. ; )

My name is Mr. Squirrel, but my friends call me by my sobriquet: Shelly. Yes, I do love to shell nuts! Now, please do not address me as Shelley for I am no casual Michelle and, as you may have guessed, indeed, I am a bit of a Sprachgefühl too. So, if you offer me a peanut, I will pass the legume right back to you. And, if you offer me a corn’s kernel instead, I might bite a digit, but only leave it a trifle red. At home amongst the barked limbs, I prefer ones coated with lichen. Lumberjerks are not welcome near unless they are going to sever their inhumane branch of anthropogony instead of scything my tree! Well, there are many tales to be told and many tails to behold, but before any of those events transpire, this Shelly’s noggin requires seven spiffy swevens to unfold. ; )

Yes, I am a head that is ahead of the situation if by ‘situation’, you mean the pique with mum regarding the pithivier I have been storing in the back of her pouch place. I find its scent pleasing. She feels differently. She also says I am fraught with rebelliousness and that my stubbornness is obumbratimg my judgment. That point was relayed two weeks ago. She has, since made me keep the pithivier, which has recently spoiled. So, now you know why my head is *really* ahead of the situation. ; )

Swevens mid-day limn possibilities for hours remaining. How will ticks and tocks be faced? Brightly, of course!

Deaths in dreams are resurrected at wake, turning charcoaled cognitions into diamond duhs, leaving ekpyrosis resolved between snooze taps.

Under eyes are dilapidated scenes, but a skip down the periphery are not-so-envious greens ready to plant senses of hope.

Painting the crown red–in accents, of course–may create a calavera of the self, igniting joy for upcoming visages.

Curiosity sqees that the yellow hat was actually sunny light, pointing towards reflection regarding all that is right.

Just a minute. Perhaps, a second. Or more. Vividly optimistic are oneiric horizons of a rosy review. ; )

Please, yes, do wish upon every falling star, but not of those spilled from a jar.