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She was like Marat, only with nobody to kill her.

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I explained the rules at match point.

I explained the rules at match point. My father loves his mother. No one loves my father. What is the emotional equivalent of the discountenance lining the cloth of the tiring pallbearer, reluctantly holding you. (Nobody eats the mint from the mint leaf you old f**k)

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The flowers, the glass.

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My mother was upset so whilst I was gardening (guerilla) I collected some little white flowers with thorns in their stems, chopped them up and put them in a vase for her. Not because I’m nice, but it is apparently a nice thing to do. I think she liked them but I can’t be sure because I had my earphones in.

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They smell pretty darn good too people. If you have a friend, or significant other, or a mother, perhaps you could do the same. Also, if anyone knows what flowers these are – please tell me.

The flowers, the glass.