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Sweat drips down surround eye-scanning head, hot moistness clings for all to see. Melting sweet cone showcases anxiety, nervous perturbed vanilla soup. Now it’s the sick bug kind. Roll around in wetting bed with cold sweat billowing from throbbing head and if I should live before I’m dead let me control the glands instead. I am wet, the ungood kind, double plus bad. I walk to and fro in summer or in winter’s throes and bead in light and perspire heavy, in shorts in coat I soak it all, and drip drop damp for social ill. Are you okay is what I hear, man you’re sweating refrains my ears. Clammy hands are gone for these days but still I exude a watery phase. Like liquid cool the pores do seepeth, no reason ‘cept the overactive; nerves, hormones, fight or flight fancies and agitation from within.

A paranoid, neurotic little glasses man with the Jewfro combover spectacle speculating about trouble and trifles and the need for home idle. Soak my sheets it’s fine with me, coarse and melt in front of friends I feel ashamed and childish then. The little man says tut tut mon frere, I didn’t know he was French. You fret and dread of this faux pas but one day you shall thank me. This overacting worry and impulse will surely name its purpose. Bananas.

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