I don't know if this is the way a typical guy is supposed to think, but my first thought was, "She wore her wedding dress when she ate the entree and main course meal? And didn't worry a bit about getting a stain? Impressive!"So I gotz married.
(By the time we got to the sunset photo I had already eaten my entree and main course meal so I look 3 months pregnant but I'm not.)
HA! I guess I am normal after all! That or he and I are both weird in the same way.The picture with the reflection is quite notable too.
Were you afraid of getting the dress dirty?
HA! I guess I am normal after all! That or he and I are both weird in the same way.
I couldn't see a lady going to the trouble of changing, eating, then changing again just for a sunset picture, but I also couldn't see a lady wearing her wedding dress at the wedding dinner and risking a stain...
Everything has it's beginning, everything has it's end. Sometimes you just need to know when to let go and move on. Holding on to something your heart is not into will never help you but only place a burden. Time to say goodbye
Goodbyes are difficult, and looking back is tempting. What ifs are plenty and answers are few. I try, sometimes it is very hard, to walk today's walk without worrying too much about tomorrow and not thinking of the what ifs of the past. You need some basic securities to do so, though. I am weak, because I am not able to trust God that way, but need the work contract and the vision that things are doable before I stop worrying. I wish I could trust God more wholeheartedly, though.
I learned how to compose a mountain dew sonata out of my adverbial bubblegum that has the amphibious expectation of a bureaucratic barbecue with the flabbergasted duck-pimples that used to gurgle three scoops of diesel cup-o-noodle real estate if u find yourself doing illegal backflips while the polka-dotted signature of your raspberry snooze alarm goes viral with the free-range boatload of romantic hiccups that go bump in the photo of diamond peanut butter bellyache cravings that come with a parmesan billy-goat hashtag found in your non-violent milkshakes of yankie doodle palm-readers snorting grandmother clocks and losing weight in the acoustic library of billabong sedatives that tangled your tie-dye tournament of huckleberry smirks when you get down and out over the allergic big band rebellion who loves to subpoena a phantom breakfast burrito when the stereotypical burp festival hands you a sweet and sour holiday celebrating the art of sitting down and muttering how to resemble tic-tac-toe therapy from neptune volkswagon that does sign-language for the paperback withdrawal from postmodern skateboard jacuzzis with the university of phosphorescent child-sized opera showers from the prehistoric bumper sticker farm that hide and seeks the controversial apricot orphanage for mohawk convertibles addicted to grammatical toothpaste from the deep-fried water park conspiracy garden of interstate sit-ups intended to hot-wire your left stomachache that has a theoretical wind-farm patio behind the gas station surgery of the triangular sorcerer’s apprentice at the hookah lighthouse spinning a ravioli proverb multiplied by the honey nut cheerio square root of chevrolet somersaults that used to smell like a diet balloon in the marco polo fallacy of wide-eyed horseshoe giggles
The picture with the reflection is quite notable too.
Were you afraid of getting the dress dirty?
I don't know if this is the way a typical guy is supposed to think, but my first thought was, "She wore her wedding dress when she ate the entree and main course meal? And didn't worry a bit about getting a stain? Impressive!"
Now that I think of it, that actually makes a lot of sense. I mean... it's not like you plan to wear it again.
It was after the photos we ate, the sunset photo was spontaneous. After the photos were taken I didn't mind staining it at all.
I learned how to compose a mountain dew sonata out of my adverbial bubblegum that has the amphibious expectation of a bureaucratic barbecue with the flabbergasted duck-pimples that used to gurgle three scoops of diesel cup-o-noodle real estate if u find yourself doing illegal backflips while the polka-dotted signature of your raspberry snooze alarm goes viral with the free-range boatload of romantic hiccups that go bump in the photo of diamond peanut butter bellyache cravings that come with a parmesan billy-goat hashtag found in your non-violent milkshakes of yankie doodle palm-readers snorting grandmother clocks and losing weight in the acoustic library of billabong sedatives that tangled your tie-dye tournament of huckleberry smirks when you get down and out over the allergic big band rebellion who loves to subpoena a phantom breakfast burrito when the stereotypical burp festival hands you a sweet and sour holiday celebrating the art of sitting down and muttering how to resemble tic-tac-toe therapy from neptune volkswagon that does sign-language for the paperback withdrawal from postmodern skateboard jacuzzis with the university of phosphorescent child-sized opera showers from the prehistoric bumper sticker farm that hide and seeks the controversial apricot orphanage for mohawk convertibles addicted to grammatical toothpaste from the deep-fried water park conspiracy garden of interstate sit-ups intended to hot-wire your left stomachache that has a theoretical wind-farm patio behind the gas station surgery of the triangular sorcerer’s apprentice at the hookah lighthouse spinning a ravioli proverb multiplied by the honey nut cheerio square root of chevrolet somersaults that used to smell like a diet balloon in the marco polo fallacy of wide-eyed horseshoe giggles
I learned how to compose a mountain dew sonata out of my adverbial bubblegum that has the amphibious expectation of a bureaucratic barbecue with the flabbergasted duck-pimples that used to gurgle three scoops of diesel cup-o-noodle real estate if u find yourself doing illegal backflips while the polka-dotted signature of your raspberry snooze alarm goes viral with the free-range boatload of romantic hiccups that go bump in the photo of diamond peanut butter bellyache cravings that come with a parmesan billy-goat hashtag found in your non-violent milkshakes of yankie doodle palm-readers snorting grandmother clocks and losing weight in the acoustic library of billabong sedatives that tangled your tie-dye tournament of huckleberry smirks when you get down and out over the allergic big band rebellion who loves to subpoena a phantom breakfast burrito when the stereotypical burp festival hands you a sweet and sour holiday celebrating the art of sitting down and muttering how to resemble tic-tac-toe therapy from neptune volkswagon that does sign-language for the paperback withdrawal from postmodern skateboard jacuzzis with the university of phosphorescent child-sized opera showers from the prehistoric bumper sticker farm that hide and seeks the controversial apricot orphanage for mohawk convertibles addicted to grammatical toothpaste from the deep-fried water park conspiracy garden of interstate sit-ups intended to hot-wire your left stomachache that has a theoretical wind-farm patio behind the gas station surgery of the triangular sorcerer’s apprentice at the hookah lighthouse spinning a ravioli proverb multiplied by the honey nut cheerio square root of chevrolet somersaults that used to smell like a diet balloon in the marco polo fallacy of wide-eyed horseshoe giggles
That is such a highfaluting reply![]()