the foster god has done a bang-up job of resembling your father.  I admit.  my eyes are faithless.  a group of boys beat my son for beating my daughter.  when I carry my kids, my kids relax.  I can feel it in my *******.  the group of boys are uneducated and call a ******* the peter’s backpack.  I would laugh but the group’s leader has a razor and looks none too happy god has promoted him to shave me.  when done, my ***** and its carriage look as if left by an angel to grow alone after not being placed on an infant.  there is nothing to be said but one of the boys mutters away.  the leader shares that this boy is set to star in the film version of your father’s suicide and has agreed to **** himself for real.  once gone, I can’t tell if the boys were never here or if they are simply not here now.