the tinyblog

There was once a gurl who meant well, really she did. She hibbered about the ave, dodging the dodgies and patting the young bastervilles on the head with a mop. The denizens of the ave revered and validized her and longed to get her alone on the couch at the Sureshot for just five minutes.

Her hair was purple and straight and that never kept her from telling random people on the street how she felt. She could not mate, because she was truly one of the last of her kind. She did not wish to have mutant one-sixteenth inner panda babies who would have to live their whole lives craving bamboo but being unable to digest it. In other words, she couldn't get her no....nonoNO! Hey hey hey!

She saw her likeness once on a pillar in a park and admired it's amazing likeness except for the insufficient rendering of depth and it's portrayal of her lip as pouty. Sad certainly, but she'd be taffeted if she ever but once pouted. Pout really refers to various freshwater and parine fishes, like the eelpout or hornpout. She sniglered at the idea of herself as a bullhead or hornpout nuzzling through a sludgy bog.

She regarded this wall-artist with a mix of consternation and appreciation. Well, she thought, perhaps they got it just right.