facts are for the weak was registered at what one would perhaps call "happier, and more naive times". 

all content solely reflect the sleepless nights, as well as the hand-wringing days of the authour.

Use without permission will result in firsthand demonstration of a different kind of hand-wringing.

From -oyds to -itis

It is Boston.

"You'll start appreciating sleep when you get older", says the St. Bernard, "but stay young while you can". His wife, a deflated Miami miniature poodle with the kind of UV peril that gets cancer to blush -- waves her little plastic olive skewer previously of her martini. She then lists pills of all the -itis of the evening: Rheumatoid Arthritis. Urethritis. Tendonitis.

"I wish there was a cure-all", she whinnies to the bartender. We call him doctor. At least, I call him Doctor. Doctor prescribes two solids of Stoli. I tend not to argue with doctors.

"With all those -itis, you need more -oids," comes the prescription. 

Hrumphing from the Alaskan Malamute in the corner: "I know some oyds. Like Lloyd."

Three solids in, the pound rings last call. We all glum into the bottoms of our poisons, when I get an alert from Words With Friends.

I type in Mucoid, win, tip, and dream dangerously.

It was 20.6°C with overcast. The breeze was light.

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The Doge finds weakness in your heart