MY
FRESHMAN YEAR
by NCP
It's the same kind of dirt that it was all those years ago. We roll our logs down a hill and hope that I can find the red ones. You might feel a kind of torture, but torture is a kind of loving, and they love you, baby.When you ache I hurt the most. Put on your glasses, I want to see you as you see yourself.
But Johnny Reb, what must you pay? When you bake in the forest do the animals come to see? It's hard to see, hard to understand because the dirt just builds up and the sun can't save it, the sun will stop it, freeze it
I paid $250 for toothpaste/keychains/key to modern commerce.