psssssssst, blueroses, we watchin' you.

Really, we are. We have your IP. And youre digits.

Its our job. Why do you think we're here.

I wish not to discriminate, so I am watching season 12, episode 5 of southpark, downloaded via itunes, as I wash myself in powdered sugar in an adult diaper while listening to the editors on my iphone, and munching on warm italian bread brought to my door by one of philly's finest.

Don't get me wrong, blueroses. I watch you while you think you're alone.

I have smacked my own warm titty with croissants warmed by the grill. My wife knows that when I get home late at night, nothing other than grease against my bosom can forsake my penchant for addresses given against an internet protocol. If only I can digest all that is abound in phillyblog. If only I can quaff. I have felt your location blueroses, and it shall now be the crux of my soul. My greasy bosom. My sh*t t*tty.

This is big brother blueroses, this is big brother. A dalinian attribute towards the obscene that mechanizes itself towards an apostrophe.

My balls are stiff with funnel cake, my taint is filled with beer. No matter how sad that sounds, you are lowlier if you think the world cares about your location.

Suck my diaper down at pink pastry tomorrow as I eat my usually cheap breakfast. You're pathetic. Oh, and stupid. Oh, and eat my sugary taint, as it is about as existent as the big brother looking up your IP.

EDIT-oops, forgot to cough as you're touchin' my nut.

FIN, BI%^H. You've done been powned.

__________________
Peter Cetera:
Sometimes I just forget
Say things I might regret
It breaks my heart to see you crying