December 1, Entry 18

¡Pie! Muffins are in Spanish like Toucan Sam is coco for Cuckoo Parts. The upside down question mark is the only gateway to the butterscotch jello that is my left head. The bile of her fear of carpets can only serve to empower the evil one's ceiling fans and their accomplice. The hamstring of doubt sweeps over my new bones made of tin foil like the fire of my recent swim in the oceans of the Gobi Desert. The dent of neverlasting life creases my construction paper in the cold, cold heat of the new microwave. Xylophone after xylophone I see in the parade of the Pope's llama stuck in its infinite pen of pudding. ¿Can it eat its way out? I am not the one to ask. If you must find the answer, speak to my dear friend, Jargel. He is the one. The one of knowledge. He knows the answer to the question. The question of streetlights and their nefarious hair. But will you dare to ask? Doubtful. You seem like too gooey a person to my aluminum eyes.