She gapes her vagina wide open on multiple occasions giving a very explicit view of her private places.
Pretty much weekly I get messages from people who are desperate to help a loved one with a mental illness. She has been living with bipolar disorder for 18 years and has written more than 1000 articles on the subject.
Being in the same room with him is like being hit repeatedly with a hard, blunt abject.
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Sales sets a new benchmark in creative swearing as she wrestles with new audio equipment. Brenda breaks out a creme de menthe to celebrate receipt of an audible podcast.
Crabb thinks the recording device looks like a medieval contraceptive crossed with a bomb and advises that they never attempt to fly anywhere with it.
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There have been suicide attempts, hospitalizations and crazy, abusive behavior galore. And I don’t have a relationship with any of these mentally ill people. Not one of them gets help, follows a regimen, admits to the mental illness, or tries to get better. And my brother, the one I grew up with, the one who I remember with white-blond hair, the one that would sleep under the covers and wake with rosy cheeks, the one that had Winnie-the-Pooh fuzzy pajamas with booties, is mentally ill.
I remember playing video games, I remember playing on the lawn, I remember how he screamed when he broke his arm, I remember how thrilled he was when he got a remote-controlled car for Christmas, and I remember the way he used to twirl his hair around his finger so it was always in knots. And now he is an abusive, destructive force that no one can stand to be around lest they get pulled into convincing delusions and psychoses or have to fear his violent rage.
Thoughts ran through her mind of past bets and dares and figured she would get through this one just as easy as the last ones she had lost.
Tracy usually lost these bets, but it was fun doing the things her friends put her up to.