she took up the piano. Heavy weights suppress the acne. Just smooth over your feelings and expectorate. Ranch hands roughen your cheeks. Make them plug shotguns with glass brakes. Gloss under the table won’t make you rich. It alters perspective without changing anything. Add to your topiary for a good time. Open another restaurant and be glad for the flatware you inherited. She won’t mind your smelling like seaweed. Like my other brother, you inhibit speculative drinking. I call home for advice, but no one’s ever there. Spritz that glass. It has something else coming. You hurl converted