Dropping the topic "Secrets About" to me is like trying to shake down my Jewish side for a quarter. I have many a secret. And I don't tell people what they are. That's what makes them secret, Stupid.
And what are these secrets about? Again, refer to the(more) nature of what a secret is then punch yourself in the face. Now do it again. Gosh, you're an idiot.
Why keep secrets? Why tell everybody everything?
KFC and Coca Cola keep their recipies secret and nobody cares. They just give these institutions their money. Who knows what's in that stuff, although just by saying that I sound like one of those conspiracy theory assholes.
Question: How come when there's bad weather, the tinfoil hat brigade starts talking about how the government has a secret facility that can get a finger in Mother Nature and make her do what they want, but when it's a nice day, they don't say dick?
I once told a guy that if Jerry Garcia were alive today, he'd be asking to see Obama's birth ceritifcate.
"No he woulnd't," Dumbass said.
"Of course he would. Didn't he always say to question authority?"
"Yeah, but he didn't mean it like THAT."
"How do you know?"
And he had no answer to that and was left to simmer in a giant hot puddle of chump. Of course Jerry would think such a thing. People who do that many drugs always speculate on far off possibilities, like conspiracies, religion, and New Jersey, which probably doesn't even exist. Sure, it's on the map, but have you ever been there?
You haven't if you're Top Pot Doughnuts. Get your asses out east. Some people wanna eat that shit you make. Still waiting on my freebies. Don't make me go to Mighty O.(less)
Oh, I got secrets alright.
I got secrets coming out of my yin-yang and I don't even know what that really means.
That's no secret by the way, I googled it and nobody really knows.
Ok I lied, I didn't google it, I bing'd it. Because my browser bin(more)gs before it googles and I'm kinda in a hurry.
I'm going down the shore this morning, or when I finish writing this, whichever comes first. Yeah, I know, that bodes well for this trigger.
(shut up Muse, go back to sleep, it's early here on the east coast)
Remember Password? The game show? You know, where they give you clues and you have to guess the secret word?
I am not old. Shut up.
Secrets can be a useful tool if you ever feel the need to blackmail someone. Not that I'm condoning blackmail, but it can come in handy if say, you know some really juicy secrets about somebody who, for example, teaches kids yet sends naked pictures of herself to other people's husbands.
Not that I know any secrets like that because if I did I would be morally obligated to inform authority-type people.
And I have no time for that, I have beaches awaiting my arrival.
In New Jersey which, yes indeed truly does exist despite the doubting JJ's-err, I mean doubting Thomas's (Thomasi?) of the world.
Not that I'm conspiring theories or anything like that, but I'm not touching that Birth Certificate thing with a 10-foot pole. I'm leaving that one to Jerry Garcia. And possibly Ted Nugent.
Not for me to reveal secrets of any kind, regardless of who they belong to.
Ok, I'll give you one of my own.
I love doughnuts.
But we don't have Top Pot doughnuts in New Jersey.
So I'm doughnut-less.(less)
They stalk through the corridors of his brain, probing the walls for a way out, their shoulders hunched over as they struggle to haul their own weight. They've been trapped there for who knows how long, and their anxiety clots in the air like a forgotten bucket of blood.(more) There is no exit, no seam to burst from; the hallways snake on beyond and around them, stretches of dusty, carpeted space almost as endless as her scream. They know how hard it was to put her in the ground. They /are/ how hard it was to put her in the ground. Over there is the pull of his shoulders as he throws in the last spadeful of dirt, and it nods in vague acknowledgement as it passes the sound of his getaway car in the hall. They have nowhere to go. There is no exit. He slumps against the steering wheel. He can feel them prowling in his head, wearing a hole through the carpet with the patience of a prisoner digging out of a cell block with a spoon. They step. They step, and step, and step, clacking like the heels she used to wear. He clamps his hands over his ears. The secrets are about again, restless as always; he closes his eyes and tries to build more walls around them, more dusty carpeted paths. He slams his hand on the wheel; the car horn shrieks, shrill and scared. The walls dissolve at the sound; the carpet falls away. He bites his lip. The blood feels its way down to his chin, and as he watches the sun die outside the window, he can feel his eyes sinking deep into their sockets, settling in as it waits for the blood to dry on his skin.(less)