last night my sister surprise-attacked me making me sit on her sofa and reading (nedlessly!) one-minute stories (presumably fragments of the best moments of certain days soaked in chocolat, vocered with colorful sugarbits - the ones my sis calls 'egérkaki')... and we were both laughing ourselves to death.
so much pink-cheesyness is really difficult not to laugh at, especially if the source (writer) is nothing else, but you.
and so you end up begging your torturer to stop reading, for you are ready to admit you are hopelessly positive - but she just goes on calling you a chickensoup-writer and reads on.
and well, i may not be in the mood to write much lately,
nor am i fantastically tlaented in writing pieces with great citations and a logical sream of thoughts (that are extremely difficult to follow if they go on and on an on and no matter how much you roll down it still keeps on going) but at least i know that 10 years from now i'll have sg to read with my sis and it will help to kill time rolling with laugher:)
screw adulthood, it's great to be a pink kid inside!
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