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May I call you my benevolent Queen? I am new to this whole Internet thing. Off with her head! I give you her jewels! My first wife was my dead brother’s old wife— she did not bequeath me with a new king. May I call you my benevolent Queen? My second, boy, she caused a lot of strife. I regard her more as a royal fling— off with her head! I give you her jewels! I promise, with you I shant touch a knife. If a virginal beauty, get more bling! May I call you my benevolent Queen? My Court entertains with playing of fife— though you must will to be my calm spring. Off with her head! I give you her jewels! Answer my ad, I shall send you a ring. Pleasure my royal rod, I shall make you wife. May I call you my benevolent Queen? Off with her head! I give you her jewels!
I hope I did not die a hoarderGod help me if I died the cat woman— not the sexy leather wearing kind from Batman— the hoarding, oh-my-God-the-cats-ate- her-face, kind of pathetic folktale fate. Lord aid me if I died the leather face woman: too much sun soaked on the skin, a fake tan from indoor ultraviolet lit beds. I hope I die as pale, red as I hurtled into this world. Sigh… I hope I was finally skinny, like old ladies so often are in old age. Or did I die in a sea of stilettos too tight, faux furs, cocktails in hand, finally ready to meet the right guy?