Hey Lucia, Pay up, suckah, Emma got dental with some dude.

And gears," said Anathema. "My bike didn't have gears. I'm sure my bike didn't have gears."  Crowley leaned over to the angel. "Oh lord, heal this bike," he whispered sarcastically.  "I'm sorry, I just got carried away," hissed Aziraphale.

I formally proposed. I&#39;m a good Southern gentleman.

And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.

Written By Sylvia Plath

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