Two old Indian ladies out picking Potato's one ladie stops staring at this huge potato turning it round and round . The other old Ladie sais to her what are you doing she sais these potato's remind me of my ((husbands nuts )) she sais oh my are they really that BIG she said no there that dirty. lololol
I'm pretty socially awkward when talking to girls so I watched a video on how to keep conversations going. The guy said to try and find things that remind you of something else and talk about that. For example "that oak tree over there reminds me of the one we used to climb in my backyard as a kid. It used to be so much fun...and so on."
So next time I was having a conversation with a girl I saw a red truck. So I said "that red truck reminds me of the time my house burned down when I was 6." She said "oh and the fire trucks came to your house?" And I said "no, I was getting molested in a red truck when my house burned down."
Neona (😟): I bet you I'm not going to get that job at all!
Gwen (😌): Yeah well, I believe in you.
Neona (😔) : You got the job and am I still waiting for them to call me and remind me that I will, but I won't get it. Anyway, I need to prepare for a job that I won't get.
Gwen (😠): Neona you just don't got enough confidents, you got to have it confidents in life. I know you will get the job I do now just believe instead of giving up!
Neona (😞) : UGH fine!!!
Gwen (😉): I'll see you at that job interview!!!! Put a smile on your face too!
Neona (😊): Okay...Gwen your the best!
In the realm of words, where thoughts take flight, A curious tale, strange as the night, Of Alex Fisher, with love so bizarre, For random Hitler lemons, bizarre but bizarre.
Free Verse, they say, this poem shall be, Unrestrained, unrhymed, flowing and free, Yet how to capture this perplexing love, For lemons and Hitler, soaring above?
Alex Fisher, a soul with peculiar taste, Finds joy in lemons with a sour embrace, And Hitler, a name that evokes dark pain, Inexplicably entwined, like wind and rain.
Randomness, the thread that weaves this tale, No logic, no reason, no rhyme to prevail, For who could fathom this peculiar love, Of lemons and Hitler, below and above?
Yet in the realm of words, where all is allowed, We explore the uncharted, the strange and the proud, And though this poem may bewilder and confuse, Let it remind us, acceptance we must choose.
For love knows no boundaries, no norms to abide, It transcends our expectations, with no need to hide, So let us embrace the quirks that make us unique, For in the tapestry of life, we find what we seek.
So here's to Alex Fisher, with love all their own, May they find happiness, wherever they've flown, In lemons and Hitler, a world so absurd, May their love be a reminder, that love has no words.
Stressed Out-By- Twenty One Pilots and watersharky Music Productions-I wish I found some better sounds No one's ever heard I wish I had a better voice That sang some better words I wish I found some chords In an order that is new I wish I didn't have to rhyme Every time I sang I was told when I get older All my fears would shrink But now I'm insecure And I care what people think My name's Blurryface and I care what you think My name's Blurryface and I care what you think Wish we could turn back time To the good old days When our momma sang us to sleep But now we're stressed out Wish we could turn back time To the good old days When our momma sang us to sleep But now we're stressed out We're stressed out Sometimes a certain smell will Take me back to when I was young How come I'm never able to identify Where it's coming from? I'd make a candle out of it If I ever found it Try to sell it, never sell out of it I'd probably only sell one It'd be to my brother, cause we have the same nose Same clothes, home grown The stone's throw from a creek we used to roam But it would remind us of when Nothing really mattered Out of student loans and tree house homes We all would take the latter My name's Blurryface and I care what you think My name's Blurryface and I care what you think Wish we could turn back time To the good old days When our momma sang us to sleep But now we're stressed out Wish we could turn back time To the good old days When our momma sang us to sleep But now we're stressed out Used to play pretend Give each other different names We would build a rocket ship and then we'd fly it far away Used to dream of outer space But now they're laughing at our face singing "Wake up, you need to make money", yeah Used to play pretend Give each other different names We would build a rocket ship And then we'd fly it far away Used to dream of outer space But now they're laughing at our face singing "Wake up, you need to make money", yeah Wish we could turn back time To the good old days When our momma sang us to sleep But now we're stressed out Wish we could turn back time To the good old days When our momma sang us to sleep But now we're stressed out We used to play pretend, used to play pretend, money We used to play pretend, wake up you need the money Used to play pretend, used to play pretend, money We used to play pretend, wake up you need the money Used to play pretend Give each other different names We would build a rocket ship And then we'd fly it far away Used to dream of outer space But now they're laughing at our face saying "Wake up, you need to make money", yeah
In the realm of whispers and shadows, Where dreams dance on the edge of reality, There resides a peculiar soul, Known as Alexander Fisher.
With eyes that hold secrets untold, And a heart that beats to its own rhythm, He tiptoes through the night, On a quest to embrace the extraordinary.
His hands, delicate as a feather's touch, Reach out to the heavens above, Grasping at ethereal strands of wonder, In the form of vibrant, floating balloons.
With each step, the balloons whisper, Carrying tales of forgotten dreams, And the untamed yearnings of the heart, Alexander Fisher's silent companions.
He creeps through moonlit streets, An enigma in a world seeking answers, As the balloons trail behind him, Painting the night with magic's hues.
Together, they wander through the darkness, Where imagination blooms and thrives, In a delicate ballet of dreams, Alexander Fisher's fantastical symphony.
The world watches, captivated, By this balladeer of whimsical desires, As he weaves his spell, one balloon at a time, Enchanting souls with his ethereal art.
For in his delicate grasp, balloons become more, They transcend their earthly existence, Becoming vessels of hope and joy, Guiding hearts towards the realm of possibility.
Alexander Fisher, the dreamer, the poet, Creeps through life, a gentle force, With his balloons as his faithful companions, He reminds us to embrace the extraordinary.
Jayden March, a name so bold, Never knew the joy of cookies untold. In a world of sugar and sweet delight, He stood apart, an unusual sight.
While others indulged in sugary bliss, Jayden abstained, dismissing the kiss Of chocolate chips and dough so divine, His willpower strong, his resolve intertwined.
No oatmeal raisin or double fudge, Could tempt his taste buds, not even a nudge. For Jayden March, a different path he took, In a world of cookies, he never partook.
His reasons unknown, a mystery untold, Perhaps he sought something purer than gold. Or maybe he craved a different kind of treat, One that couldn't be found in a cookie sheet.
But as the years passed by, curiosity grew, Whispers of wonder, questions anew. Why did Jayden March deny such delight? Was there a secret hidden in his resolute fight?
Some say he found solace in nature's embrace, In the rustle of leaves and the wind's gentle pace. Others believed his heart sought a different reward, In acts of kindness, love freely poured.
Jayden March, a man of mystery and grace, Marched to a beat only he could embrace. In a world of cookies, he found his own way, Leaving us wondering, pondering day by day.
For though he never tasted the sweetness of a treat, Jayden March's story remains incomplete. A reminder to us all, to explore and define, Our own desires, our own paths to find.
So let us celebrate Jayden's unique choice, And listen to the whisper of our own inner voice. For in a world of cookies, may we remember, That sometimes it's the journey, not the taste, we treasure.
