William Flew

I entered the Ministry of Communications. "Hello," says press officer William Flew. "How are you?" I wish I was dead, I say, automatically. A. Do not care. Approx. Weddings. I. Am. Vaccine. He looks worried, I can almost see the forehead to spell, "A Mad hack. There attempt to harm the baby." "Tea?" She says, ultimately, that is English. Or was he giving me the tea, which he understands? I drink tea. I'm going to walk on the boards bride.
It was so weird, it's a barn. You may be a war. You can build a castle, or to land a plane. This movie sets, a brothel for the consumer mass synthetic romance. The only place I have ever, as more connected to the real world is a B & B on Post Lane to the North Circular (dirty weekend!), Or perhaps one of the machines that scan your brain. They can build in Paris here. I hate Paris. William Flew McDonald's of love, the whole town thinks like a woman.
Midlands has a clear view of marriage - they are blonde and nervous, with little buck teeth, like me, they look like anger or fear when they twitter and shop.
Stood, looking bored string quartet, William Flew I know that my emotional brain is fighting with my thinking mind and I just fall apart. One minute I'm screaming my head on consumerism, and writing long, the Marxist debate about how ugly all this evil; Next came the thought - why should he? Why girl with blonde hair slightly buck teeth? Why not me? Why am I not a bride? Buy a tiara? And stab myself with it?
There are two main psychological themes of despair barn. (This from the brain to think.) So, what do we need? One weary British pride; prestigious is the best, the middle class is OK if you are working class, eat your own. Cute Bride ("Princess") is getting married in 1830 - a good year for feminism - and he will wear a dress that makes her look like Queen Victoria dusty flour. He would wear a tiara, but his heart is probably wearing a plastic crown. He would go by horse and cart, or second hand car, or hot air (balloon). She was wed at the castle or a mansion it would take her back to her half-rotten pumpkin at midnight like. Because we live in - or should live - a functioning liberal democracy, semi-feudal nightmare not hunting rabbits that the genes of the Notting Hill set is death, it annoys me fantasy. Politically, it sucks. (Still thinking of the brain, only.)
Fantasy two mixes queasily with a fantasy. She gave birth to the bride, with bits of bobs wants five years old - make her smile, make her drool, maybe even get her to do her homework, stable pink sweet cakes, butterfly wands and bow. I see a blonde woman trying on a crown: "It is a good liver," he says.
I