Where you’re not with the one you love, love the one you’re with. (Not my philosophy, I just remember the song.)
Good start.
That was the intent of boomerangs, hunting instrument and weapon.
She’s in the same category as the “artist”.
That dimple on her chin is her navel.
Knock, knock. Who’s there? Emerson. Emerson who? Emerson nice boobs, lady.
So we tanned his hide, when he died, Clyde, and that’s it hangin’ on the shed.
Fatal… ’cause she might kill him if the snoring keeps up.
Pick an old favorite song and mentally recite the lyrics. I’m always asleep before I finish the last verse.
After three years he’s obviously a ghost.
Where you’re not with the one you love, love the one you’re with. (Not my philosophy, I just remember the song.)