A most fortuitous Thursday evening one week past, made unfortunate only by its fatal transience, granted me the acquaintance of a young lady so lovely, a lass of such lewd, lax, loose, and liberated lucidity as to lay in waste all lordly limits that have littered in lofty alliteration the legend and lore that I've ever learned. Lo, do I lament my luck; or what little is left!

But Lettuce Be Reality that even laden by our solipsistic salad of sociopathic insanity, hope must linger long as memory lives. Thus I declare that, should my destination clarify, I'm gonna be the man to march Five Hundred Miles -- nay! Twice that, so sweetly does my heart in redundant bliss sing "dadada-daa" -- purely for the opportunity to once more glimpse your girlishness and ascend the mental Foundation of your Kingly edumacation.

And yet here I sit...

Will your sultry lips ever again yearn for another toke of my bogie's burn? Will you steal my buddy's beer and then deny it loud and clear?

SHED NO TEAR MY SHORT-LOST DEAR; Ms Miraculous McBeal, Bodacious She-Baba, Prefix To My Gator, Strayest of Pussycats.

Sustain your faith; I hunt for thee! — I Dunno If I Want My Name Beside What's Either A Pretentious Monstrosity Or Incoherent Babble