Languid Humor = Garbage

Reasonably sure that I have lied about, that is to say have imagined every woman I have ever dated, has begun to set back the immediate structure of a worthless self. Stolen womens clothing from questionable sources developed a strange inadequate karma of melodramatic cheating accusations, much like every note ever taken down in classes. Displeased by an unsure regurgitation of half truths and historically misleading falicies though slowly becoming positive I have never structured a string of words original to the language but always true to some personel of the human sanctuary... have made words. If these memories have some how been replaced with actual occurance then what such entity enforces a limit to the inevitable reproduction of those things having happened, happening again. A daily route through the brains firing synapses. Plausibly the motor function of an ability to source through our holy britanica, in mere existance to solidify definitions into illusionary diplomacy. Have we just been together this whole time?