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Thursday, April 27, 2006 

I relentlessly desire your custard tongue between my eyelids

Have a surrealist compliment.

I must demand your pleasing chin! How it passes there and back again like a leopard searching for its misplaced frontal lobes.

That's the nicest thing anyone has said to me in weeks.

You are as frightful as an engine developed solely for the countenance of sexual inuendo by country music.

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Ian Mathers is a freelance writer whose work has appeared in Stylus, the Village Voice, Resident Advisor, PopMatters, and elsewhere. He does stuff and it magically appears here.

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