supple, copper-domed better half week after merciless week, I never actually wished that you were dead.
And now you are.
Yet, still, I'm not one iota closer to sexing the erstwhile Mrs. Cunningham now than I was as a musky, besotted rodeo clown of avarice back in 1983. And there's nothing that Spike Jonze can do about it now.
Is that what a loving God would allow?
Sad But Not Really Meaningfully Grieving,