The Vocal Range Of Your Average Housewife

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Escape from the upper left hand corner of the ceiling to understand the words that come from the mind of the housewive's floccinaucinihilipilification.
A whisp. A trifle. Nothing. A hair.
Never in her life ever since the war called from 1861 has she layed a fork on the brim of a hat. She gargles her tea. Sets it down. Tunes the radio and raises her ear to the frequencies enveloping the area surrounding the rock which overlooks the balcony. An oasis of all success that is in the rain of the city reaches the outermost expansions of her town. The vocal ranges tied to a tree and left to dry in the sun has always been a delight to her child. She likes her child but not as much as she likes lasagna.
You really got me thinking about it. She was a little weird when I saw her last year but now she bites at the hand that feeds her.






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