Now, in the grand tradition of these cruel chronicles, I will be reporting to you at varying stages of drunkennesses (good word, wordoes) and woppness. Holy fuckballs haven't things ended up on the wrong side of the road on this season of stuttering freak brother update. The following scenes may be unsuitable for children or faggots.
Given the ongoing skism between mien glorious self and she who must be set adrift in asbestos, some manner of mutual nurture ground had to be appropriated. All this, of course, without needless social work snipers positioned anywhere in the area, to my knowledge at least. Chalice brood would stay at the mansion to the left where all those slippery paternal years can slither by so slickly. Which would've been idyllic, of course, save for the expanding malevolence of my stuttering freak brother, whom I think I may have mentioned at one intermittent disaster or another.
I don't even know where to start with this one so it'll come in instalments. Like Idol's living relatives.
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