driphoney
tittivator
- Joined
- Nov 10, 2008
- Posts
- 9,107
If writers didn't listen to the voices in our heads, our stories would be very very dull...
Exactly!

Er, um . . . I'm having trouble being controversial. I tried earlier.
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If writers didn't listen to the voices in our heads, our stories would be very very dull...

Pity.
{Inserts bogus report on how imaginary friends are a healthy part of the adult experience and one should always listen to the voices in our--, er, our imaginary friends.}
Isn't ANY activity you could do when you're 5,000 years old slightly juvenile, relatively speaking?But having imaginary friends when you are 5,000 years old is slightly juvenile.
Og
Isn't ANY activity you could do when you're 5,000 years old slightly juvenile, relatively speaking?
I try to be very juvenile at all times and imaginary friends are easier to clean up after, even 5,000 of them and they never eat much!
No wonder no can find their muse.
Litfan has them all at his party and he's feeding them.
Oh hell, we'll never get them back now.
worse yet I am sending them all to ALT school after the party!!!

*Busts in singing "Back in Black"*
Is it party time yet?
*Feeling Contraversial*
Busts in singing old slave song, Run Nigger Run.
where is everbody?
In the Naked Lounge, all gathered round an old piano singing Victorian Parlour Ballads:
"If I planted
just one tiny seed of love
in the garden of your heart . . ."
{ produces paper on the benefits of parlour singing as an exercise }
are you hangin out with those old hens again Hp?
Ahem!
I think the derogatory, er, controversial word you're needing there is "chicks", babe . . . .
Lyrics: Kashmiri Song
Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,
Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?
Whom do you lead on Rapture's roadway, far,
Before you agonise them in farewell?
Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,
Where are you now? Where are you now?
Pale hands, pink tipped, like Lotus buds that float
On those cool waters where we used to dwell,
I would have rather felt you round my throat,
Crushing out life, than waving me farewell!
Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,
Where are you now? Where lies your spell?
You mean this:-
And a tenor of no mean ability.
{insert scholarly, boring monograph on the life of Tchaliapin}