pistachio nuts - or the clams of the the forest, not among the helter skelter birch tree scouting and marking territory, but among the aged oaks and pristine scents of pines among the fallen pine needles in zigzag promenade - indeed pistachio nuts like shellfish, slightly opened ergo healthy - clams or mussels, once opened then healthy for the palette - still a bewilderment to care with a hydrochloric acid cauldron that the stomach is - that's the prior bewilderment, the other being this madonna-***** complex that Anaïs Nin represents - i've eaten a *******'s *** (her own anatomical definition) - indeed smothered in creams to ease a professional approach to a lack of relationship stimulation - science says that eating the female *** is like downing a range of antibiotics - i can imagine - why is she suddenly this hailed saint of scissors applied to a middle-class straitjacket? what the hell is going on? ah... i know, the longer a feeble secret is allowed to ferment, it goes from being vinegar to being wine to being a fruity ***** - well shiver me timbers! ever walk into a brothel with 7 prostitutes waiting their bus for £110 an hour and not feel intimidated asking for a glass of water? i have... they eye you like hyenas, a true spirit of solidarity that feminism forgot, 7 prostitutes eyeing you, then you say 'can one of your pick me?' 'you can't say that, it's not allowed!' 'oh, aren't you a talker, you'll do.' every single brothel i've been too always reminds me of Jack Daniels - i don't know why, the burnt auburn sweetness of charcoal or something, add the skin creams on the ****** smeared like an insomniac creating a synthetic approach to sleep with amitriptyline (25mg) and alcohol and you've just bought yourself a treasure island crucifix.