Where DOES it all end? Obviously it ends after all is said and done. After the fat lady sings. When pigs fly, when hell freezes over, when you move into upper management, when you’re marinating in soil and worms, when you’ve moved into shart mode, the jig is up, the farm is bought, the hellish sensation that you’ve been there before sets in, tax season grasps you by the balls and nails you to the desktop, the seratonin uptake inhibitor is neither uptaking nor inhibiting, in fact you are exhibiting on the downbeat, and the symphony is playing on and on. You’re toast. You’re so yesterday. Your mold is showing, your eyes have seen the glory of the coming, you bet the farm and your dog died too. You’ve gone to the dirt archives. The cat is on the bed. You’ve put the smack down on it all, you eat the big one, you eat the little ones too, and then they eat you. Repeat.

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