Meringue nests hefty with maggots are just the start of our malaise.
I don't like to make a scene - we spend so little time together these days.
Make the most, Martin, I muse.
As a married man, it's my main mantra.
'Mmm,' I murmur, 'my meal makes me much more merry,'
making a show of masticating. Munch, munch.
Matilda moves her mouth but maybe she's miserable.
Much too much meat, methinks.
Too many maggots.
Mentally, I move through my menu of events:
mountain climbing
mud-wrestling
motocross
monkey wrangling
mormonism
murder
Nothing moves me.
Matilda moans.
I mutely moon for Monday.
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