This Thread Shall Live!
- Thread starter KTC
- Start date
Henry Frankenstein: Look! It's moving. It's alive. It's alive... It's alive, it's moving, it's alive, it's alive, it's alive, it's alive, IT'S ALIVE!
Hi, Nica. No. Actually it's dead. It's just that all these people who keep coming in here are preverts.
Showers are to your right, turn left when you see the gift shop, then follow the signs.
Pay no attention to the cameras mounted on the walls.
Hmmm. My pet beastie is chewing on the edge of this thread.
I'm torn. Baby might eat the whole thing and get rid of it forever. But it can't be good for her digestion.
I'm torn. Baby might eat the whole thing and get rid of it forever. But it can't be good for her digestion.
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It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale fowles maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open ye,
(So priketh hem nature in hir corages:
Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmers for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, couthe in sondry londes;
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The holy blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke.
Damn, Chaucer really needs to break up that sentence.
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale fowles maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open ye,
(So priketh hem nature in hir corages:
Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmers for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, couthe in sondry londes;
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The holy blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke.
Damn, Chaucer really needs to break up that sentence.