Two for dinner? Right this way.
.Don't judge me. You have to understand the circumstances I was in before you even think of second guessing my judgment. Maybe, in retrospect, I could have planned things out better, but based on the circumstances, I think that I made a pretty good choice. (Note from the author. As I am writing this, I am quite ill. I just took two Nyquil and am quite tired and tipsy in the head. Bear in mind this was written under the influence of a PM medication, and I am just writing what pops into my head. I will try and keep awake as long as I can.) Don't tell Sandy what I did. Signed, -SpongeBob
Morose, the cubic anemone licked the envelope and stuffed a letter inside. In bold, carefully written face, was the name "Patrick" written on the awkwardly empty envelope face. Bob placed the telltale letter on the table next to the door where somebody was bound to see it. Bob stared at the letter contemplating weather a full confession was the right decision. No, it had to be. Anything would be better than living this lie any longer. He hated pretending to be something he wasn't. Bob picked up his small suitcase from the foot of his bed and walked outside his door for the last time. He sighed, and walked over to the bus stop bench just down the street from where he lived. The bus stop bench was an old bench made of wood. It's inconsistent shape caused the muzzle of the gun in his holster to dig into his side. He quickly opened his suitcase and stealth-fully buried the six shooter in his garments. Sitting on top of his shirts was his wallet with all his identifications inside. He opened up the first fold revealing his Bikini Bottom License. The name SpongeBob under the stupid little picture taunted him. He tore the license in half, severing the head from the body. Behind the former home of the license was another license with the name Robert Bamburti. Bob liked his life in Bikini bottom, but he made it a rule not to keep any one identity for any longer than 6 months no matter what. This had to be done. (Aughors note. Seriously, I cant evben type any more. I have just given up using spell check. My fingers are hitting rhe wrong keys and I cant help it. Nyquil messes you up. Big time!) I'm sure this story is really bad. I c ant even comprehend it inow.
.Don't judge me. You have to understand the circumstances I was in before you even think of second guessing my judgment. Maybe, in retrospect, I could have planned things out better, but based on the circumstances, I think that I made a pretty good choice. (Note from the author. As I am writing this, I am quite ill. I just took two Nyquil and am quite tired and tipsy in the head. Bear in mind this was written under the influence of a PM medication, and I am just writing what pops into my head. I will try and keep awake as long as I can.) Don't tell Sandy what I did. Signed, -SpongeBob
Morose, the cubic anemone licked the envelope and stuffed a letter inside. In bold, carefully written face, was the name "Patrick" written on the awkwardly empty envelope face. Bob placed the telltale letter on the table next to the door where somebody was bound to see it. Bob stared at the letter contemplating weather a full confession was the right decision. No, it had to be. Anything would be better than living this lie any longer. He hated pretending to be something he wasn't. Bob picked up his small suitcase from the foot of his bed and walked outside his door for the last time. He sighed, and walked over to the bus stop bench just down the street from where he lived. The bus stop bench was an old bench made of wood. It's inconsistent shape caused the muzzle of the gun in his holster to dig into his side. He quickly opened his suitcase and stealth-fully buried the six shooter in his garments. Sitting on top of his shirts was his wallet with all his identifications inside. He opened up the first fold revealing his Bikini Bottom License. The name SpongeBob under the stupid little picture taunted him. He tore the license in half, severing the head from the body. Behind the former home of the license was another license with the name Robert Bamburti. Bob liked his life in Bikini bottom, but he made it a rule not to keep any one identity for any longer than 6 months no matter what. This had to be done. (Aughors note. Seriously, I cant evben type any more. I have just given up using spell check. My fingers are hitting rhe wrong keys and I cant help it. Nyquil messes you up. Big time!) I'm sure this story is really bad. I c ant even comprehend it inow.