I hate Sundays. I watch TV, I watch TV I watch TV .... I watch TV I watch.
I feel I feel my brain melt so I'll pull myself together and tell the story of the mosquito Moustèque who ate too much watermelon. For clarity I will say that this story has no connection with or related events advenus or actually real people.
So Moustèque mosquito was a very very tidy. She loved above all to look in the mirror, front, back, but especially in profile. It was indeed very proud of her wasp waist and her slender and elegant. She was convicted of being the prettiest of the mosquito world. Too bad she's not sure she would write otherwise accrued to enter the contest for Miss Universe. She has not learned to write because she already spent little time to admire the reflection in the glass or in the pencil sharpener metal instead of listening to his mistress, who eventually resigned.
She also had another characteristic: it was very tasty. It should therefore carefully monitor their food cravings, and it was a constant struggle.
Moustèque was unhappy in love by cons. She loved with all his heart Redneck, a gnat and providing very little disgusting enough to fool with anything that moves. Moustèque was often sad to die, just like when a barber bastard had badly cut her bangs, but multiplied by 300.
And Sunday, they played: they were both in bed leaf spirit to hug the wings, and now Redneck mistake and instead of calling him by his first name, he called me Pauline Praline. Redneck, big con put an end to the crisis tears Moustèque talking loudly and he went to pee later, leaving her once alone and unhappy as a yucca.
She rose and walked toward the kitchen vexed. There she found a huge watermelon in less time than it takes to write it devoured the whole forbidden fruit.
Her belly began to swell swell, more and more to the point where she could not bend its wings along its body, let alone pull up his socks. She expected to be able to poop, to see what would happen to his enormous belly, but nothing happened. She sat on the floor of the bathroom, his paunchy stomach protruding him obstructing his view of a nice gams m across, without being able to fly or on the back or the belly. Pinned down, desperate for a day and three quarters.
Her belly has not disappeared. Instead he has continued to grow. For nine months, and one morning a small Mousplouc hop was born. Pretty as any with wings pearly reflections, all plump.
Since then, no longer Moustèque of eyes for his daughter and occasionally eats a watermelon tranchounette regardless of its weight, but taking care to remove the seeds, you never know.
Redneck died in suffering averages during a chance encounter with a fag, but it Moustèque never knew.
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