oh tittypimple, how I miss yo, the heat from the fever you had, the tender pain you had when I accidentally rubbed against yo, and then the mirror, as I pulled my shirt off, and saw your bright red swollen flesh. I was a little frightened I touched you, and you had fever in you. you were hot to the touch, and tender, I them pot both thumbs on either side, and a gentle squeeze, a whence of pain, and a pop as a solid discharge, about half the rain of rice, rock hard soiled, and deep amber, followed by a sifter, cream colored, to almost an inch that was ply able and soft at the end, then a gush of lymph, and blood. the raised skin then swelled down, a sprit of bactine, and your remnants on my finger, I couldn't look away. Oh titty pimple, how I miss you... *wipes away a tear*
Extraordinary. This is sumptuous, evocative imagery at its finest, the poignancy of which leaves its' readers crying along with the author "oh WHY???", perhaps reminded of similar tragedies to have befallen one's own lymphatic drainage system. My advice is to move on Dwaine, and to help you with this, let me offer some words. First, the beauty of this story is that although it is dead, the spirit of titty pimple can never be erased. Somewhere, someone has just got out of bed with a small ache on their bosom that will ripen into a great big rosey swelling - just like yours, ready to self sacrifice as it births the very core of its being, a testimony to the greatness of this miraculous universe. It's the circle of life and the way of things. Next, some words from the bible: Isn't that nice, Dwaine? I'm not sure what it means in relation to T.P., but it made me 'wax warm' just reading it. I hope this helps.
