In the end, we're just animals tripping out and acting strange
I am back from the morning's dentist, I am back from the afternoon's doctor, I have a second booster in my shoulder: I am going to nap. I have been medically instructed to de-stress. Anyone got a spare million and a small island in the North Atlantic? I aten't dead.

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Still too pretty to die, gentlethem.
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very glad to see you.
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No, sadly my name ain't Morgan, nor is it J.P.; I do not own a
railroad companyspare island. You can tell because you aren't on one.*Many hugs.
*Well, and because no random island on this side of the North Atlantic has suddenly sprouted a bell tower.
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By way of comic-relief chaser, have you already read GallusRostroMegalus's story about The 1969 Easter Mass Debacle? I laughed so hard I couldn't read it out loud.
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Anyone got a spare million and a small island in the North Atlantic?
Would that I did! I would start a sea-swept artists' island of friends like THAT. All bladderwrack and late-night tea and, of course, high-speed internet, in keeping with the needs of the age. You would be immediately invited. Lacking the million and the island, I send hugs.
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Nine
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