Mirrors Don'T Lie About Frank and Ernest Portrayal

Mirrors don't lie about frank and ernest portrayal... Especially when giving cheeky badass blemished physiognomic reflection tricking me seeing displeasing likeness Matthew Scott Harris, a grown lad brandishing his treasured invisible cutlass poised to strike, (where spiderlines instantaneously provoked, webbed, and frankly zapped shattering experience), whereby yours truly rendered unconscious to any pass hubble gratefully dead singed hair zombie straight away befriending image with him aforementioned christened human biomass, hence explains personal objection (mine) devoid of any sass sneaking a peek at (regarding employing cute antiquated, quaint word) looking glass. Feeble effort, butta lemme attempt to apprise ye dear reader, how gasping at me selfsame visual simulation spurs cries and whispers with shrieks of horror inexplicable nauseating revulsion jars myopic eyes espying even willow the wisp gallivanting guise think mine glassy doppelganger blithely traipsing, tooling tiptoeing no lies hands down acquiring masquerade ball door prize if nothing else... try getting a fleeting rise of humoresque judicious metaphorical sucker puncheon the gut against self I satirize February twenty third perhaps lame effort to affect seeming witty and wise. Mailer daemons rule cerebral roost, whereby gimcrackery invectives loosed, cuz all during growing up years bullies did boost inferiority complex hatching adult egg go self steam goosed abysmal confidence building accomplishment ye accurately deduced charnel, (bilabial) frictional, infernal... struggle moost arduous (think Atlas, Sisyphus, plus ten subsequent Greek mythological Titans) juiced with eternal divinity upon whose figurative shoulder humanity papoosed.