Big fat cornflakes in teh ass zoomette next door rolls in and out of her house and car in a permanant cloud of vape emerging with a new koolaid shade of hair exclusively pounds away modern nigga beats and Taylor Swift yet wears a Monterrey Pop Grateful Dead tye dye shirt.
i have a ill feeling of coming too on the front lawn sweating my fat gut protruding menacingly as my charly manson grin and greasy aviators glint in the hot summer sun pointing towards her tits and rapid fire berating her the 'akshully' facts of the matter like the Dead playing poorly at Monterey and the festival having much better sets including Moby Grape even though it wasn't recorded and then screeching out at least 10 essential Dead bootlegs as i follow towards her quickly slammed door.