Grocery Store Review, Albertson’s 775 S. Tucker Rd. Tehachapi, CA 93561

Grocery Store Review, Albertson’s   

775 S. Tucker Rd.  Tehachapi, CA 93561

A French roast is good coffee flavor on how strong it is for a quick price tag.  Potato chips are closely related to graham crackers in that both are snacks with crunchiness.  What is that crunch?  The Starbucks Coffeehouse inside has been serving Frappuccinos that don’t taste like wedding cakes.  For me, some of the Boar’s Delight gets me into holding cartoon balloons.  Boar’s deli products sweeten like taffy and taste with some of the most pure moisture I’ve tasted from meats and cheeses.  Customers have rapid checkouts when debit allows us to go forward.  “Crazy good!” says the Pop-Tarts box.  There’s something particular about a company’s imagination for their fresh blue water bottles.  Red Bull can taste so bubbly and classy with its expensive vitamins.  To eat a pop tart is comfort; to roast marshmallows is hazard.  Starbucks gives me something that is quicker than a birthday cake, although baked goods keep me company just like a groovy barista does.  Albertson’s beauty is akin to Safeway’s vibe, somewhat.  Employees know there’s some complexity to actions before simplicity begins.  I crunch cheetos like baskets of flakes; mom, cheetos like ice cream bars; dad, cheetos like a pig’s meal; little brother, cheetos like icing for his couch; big brother, cheetos like absence.  Well, well!  My French roast coffee from Signature Kitchens is very weak for me and extremely great for my dad.  I think my head is in my heart for sugar.  What Albertson’s black carts are holding in the store’s clear environment are fatty creamers, real good spices, fruit pounds, pulpy juice, buttery cheese, warm ham, and lots more stuff.  Albertson’s in Tehachapi Town is by McDonald’s.  I buy mountain chocolate from Albertson’s first, then I sit at McDonald’s for Diet Coke.  Really many flavors and textures of fruits and veggies prevent me from talking about them much.  A dish may not be one thing.  A shared amount of favorites hit the slope.  Albertson’s itself is hot candy: busy, busy, busy.  Of course, civil workers may take their vacations even when long moments are gone such as their history of passion or exhaustive activities.  This grocery store has lots of light colas I rely on.  Pepsi Max is an intense drink I use when budgeting caffeine, so why are there different commotions between money and food?  The rules of a diet are instructive, but imply budgets.  There is no weak strength in Albertson’s as long as shoppers can try new things more than once.

Restaurant Review, Pepito’s Mexican Restaurant 840 The City Dr #H Orange, CA 92868

Restaurant Review, Pepito’s Mexican Restaurant  

840 The City Dr #H  Orange, CA  92868

This Mexican restaurant from which these crowds are very exhausted but talkative when seated is a colorful haven with design throughout my lunchtime hour when the weird noise of freedom has settled under the roof’s mild shadows.  Pepito’s is actually the decisive place of conversation.  Another word from a stranger hangs in the bright air, too.  Pepito’s spinach enchiladas, a marvelous dish of corn bits, which provides me with roasted peppers by their special poblano sauce, perfect the ambiance.  The restaurant’s cube environment is lived on by rapid workers around dark shade counters through quick orders for most of your basic Mexican food items.  Did I mention it’s located in front of a hotel with Apple computers and a beautiful garden?  My struggle to overcome the pleasure and get to my nerves, to eat those long enchiladas, total satisfaction that the server- who brings chips for my salsa bar visit- hope me to be in, helps to work up my appetite.  Pepito’s salsa advantages which their plain communication does not spell out but that customers may have been about to swerve for really take the cake.  “Cake” is a metaphor for profit.  To the carefree degree that Pepito’s workforce is likely to aid customers in their urban hunger, and also to dish out numbers, they wait on tables that are less white occasionally near to being an informal crowd to lovers, not to mention for classy people who are going to fork the goods.  Restaurant decoration that might be called “the menu” is illustrated in bright glows by menu panels of the so-called combinations, plenty of specialties which pop from the menu boards in pictures and words between the helping hands and empty stomachs.  The classes of Orange City may get together in the Mexican restaurant from unique angles while the planet spins with the stars.  After my meal is over, I get out of the crowds with Diet Coke but also relish the outside patio while going next door for a chicken bowl.  This festivity between two crowds transforms my mind’s passions, I tell you, because it’s my psychological way of thinking, with terrific humors and visual thoughts, about the whole sane ambiance over temporary seconds of comfort food and reasonable history.  Pepito’s, it is true, reminds my parents of a wild rollercoaster, to enchanted mountains but I know their gesture of confusion.  It is possible to slurp a satisfactory taco without understanding the questions over salsa, or exactly as it is spooned with chips, but to the Mexican food lover with his or her mind which restaurant vocabulary floats in with faint presence, Pepito’s spinach enchiladas, prepared with liquids and solid materials, are familiar to my mom’s appetite long before dad picks up a dinosaur in our backyard.  Pepito’s opinion about freshness, and traditions, is a huge claim with minor contradictions.  I doubt that mere action indicates happiness without question, by the restaurant’s fast opportunities it offers vigor, showing customers on busy times the variety of Mexican food.

Bakery Review, Erick Schat’s Bakkerÿ 763 N. Main St Bishop, CA 93514

Bakery Review, Erick Schat’s Bakkerÿ  

763 N. Main St  Bishop, CA  93514

This bakery rules a quarter of Bishop, greatfully.  With my chocolate dipped goods, I wave my treat bag toward my old kitchen table with camel feet, taking a thick macaroon in the gut while my parents send cellphone vacation photos of their comfortable, highly experienced visit around Bishop Town.  Erick Schat’s chocolate chip cookies have some of the vitamins energy drinks may own on.  These chocolate chip cookies have a certain kind of toughness that voids their crunchiness at large, or so I really ponder when chocolate syrup icing melts from macaroons on a sizzling hot weekend, devouring macaroons one by one which are designed like fluffy seashells, and celebrating on mild days because I couldn’t easily avoid a Californian bakery responsible for the yummy Sheepherder Bread.  I beat the Sun, but chilled to get happy.  A stranger comes to this bakery’s door through problems in order to delight my wits, and I confess about our needed rest at a time for pastry flour.  Bishop’s bakery here brings together for later moments their menu of slightly powdery macaroons with congealed syrup icing for tasting, to munch from a seashell treat near my home’s open panorama.  Bishop Town is that clad environment which hits beyond rustic food until its friends get a savoring of city life; Bishop is between city and town.  The bakery’s double roast beef deal includes a pairing collection of roast beef sandwiches that my parents say arrive with correct kinds of wet meat texture in freshness and delicious bread flavors, especially for my parents’ road trip history, tasted and relished for their prevailing ideas of love.  Erick’s baking facility in day and bread also serves a fountain drink that’s bigger than a tall Rockstar.  Treats cost Erick’s Bakkerÿ their rich labor.  Like those fluffy macaroons designed by bakers with associations over dessert, real milk chocolate chips on my huge cookie show what are likely among deadliest chocolates due to my Hershey’s factory experience: their ability to become so chocolaty into fun-size muddiness.  Deliciously, seashell macaroons are tasty confections from layered recipes by their extreme freshness.  That huge cookie I mentioned is equivalent of several portions of Oreos.  Bishop Town is two stories behind the rest of them.  Chocolate chips are scrumptious stimulants used to treat daily boredom, many breaks in my green house at the finishing point of exhausting routines where body growth occurs.  Erick Schat’s Bakkerÿ, the outer shell of its taste!  I return to my parents with flavors.  The bakery provides treasures and I’ve known their reflections.  “Have a nice day.”  Cash gets large and small, the cashier pops.  When giant desserts perfect matters, I inform my parents that both a ration’s taste and texture may transcend artificial moments like gravy.

Restaurant Review, Albertaco’s Mexican Food 601 Sycamore Ave Vista, CA 92083

Restaurant Review, Albertaco’s Mexican Food  

601 Sycamore Ave  Vista, CA 92083

“That’ll be $6.94,” the cashier responds with extra communication.  I don’t know the name of the worker who pleases with a few more words, I’ve guessed.  A moment earlier I would’ve grown more curious about the chunky layers of a breakfast burrito, but now I’ve longed to mess with salsa because my wisdom teeth can think for me.  The moving cashier’s mysterious talk about my breakfast demands is appealing to his refined appearance as my expected talk complements his with a strange kind of harmony.  “Here’s $3.06.  I’ll take care.”  He makes the face of a pharaoh I see on TV.  This restaurant’s walls are pale yellow while a TV plays back Spanish that comforts me.  In fact this place reminds me of a Chinese restaurant I visit in a desert.  This quarter on Vista isn’t the best base for a Mexican restaurant that presents a menu with many windows.  I can’t believe that I’m dealing with a gentle guy who works so hard.  The cook in the kitchen cooks my eggs with some of the best steam.  “Can I get a refill?” I really say.  The cashier rushes between many counters, in a hurry to speak to cars at the Drive-Thru.  He acts mysterious with a varied kind of judgment for Diet Coke so he labors on for ludicrous speed.  The hidden cash register gives off a metallic chime as he takes my debit and fixes my plate together.  He strikes me as interesting when I eat my burrito’s yummy meat.  He stares, he cares.  Ten minutes later, I remark on the television’s vivid language in my mind.  Wild guys are jumping on trampolines, on TV!  I mention this situation for this review to illustrate what ambiance the restaurant has.  Many of my scenes at this urban restaurant for fluffy fries now remind me of the empty dining room.  Half of their burrito meats, which taste rather dry with enough moisture, are cooked by workers who sway enough for results.  When our talk (me, cashier) settles on the wide space rooms, I need to relinquish my fear over pleasure that makes me queasy and eat the hot burrito’s bulk.  The cashier gives a vague nod, but he’s determined to swerve for quick food.  A nice Spanish show on TV can make out its restaurant entertainment that I care about for wild sports or the guy who cares.  The restaurant’s workforce of quick harmony seems to provide bites of Mexican food that are so fluffy, chewy, and good.

Alcohol Talk, Texas Chuck E. Cheese’s

Alcohol Talk, Texas Chuck E. Cheese’s

http://www.kten.com/story/6187312/chuck-e-cheese-alcohol-permit

A Chuck E. Cheese’s Restaurant in Texas is going to be serving minimal amounts of alcohol to parents who bring their children.  Keep in mind that two servings of alcohol won’t make you extremely drunk, but you’d be diluted enough to loosen up a little and get your buzz on.  In fact, I greatly ponder a jiving buzz that can fix a restaurant customer’s focus at a children’s entertainment palace while inviting his or her eyes to some of the greater shapes and colors of company restaurant furniture.  Remember, Mr. Cheese can have some too!  My mom sees the rad mascot for the restaurant chain and doesn’t think much about alcoholic problems, although she is a nurse.  I’m not a fat nurse, nor am I a crazy liberal.  Evenings in a restaurant can shroud out with exclusive scenes because a customer’s bias involves tastes on some levels and kinds; not to mention Chuck E. Cheese’s alcohol like a disinterested lover or my brother’s strange maniac, shades of atmosphere that fall with restaurant evenings may coincide with the gravity of affection behind plenty of Texan families and so I give corners my name.  I’ve gone through beverage scenarios to help envision my tastes; in particular, the savorings for my mind.  At a futuristic span of history which is these years behind us now when located schools are banning peanut butter & jelly, bunches of teachers are sick and expect students to put on their foul moods.  No, I’m not exaggerating.  Maybe all adults it seems don’t wish for alcohol at particular transgressions of history, plus think about how we might name parts of our bodies and name materials as parts of our bodies.  Do we expect a beer to watch out for us?  Pedestrians sometimes act like hairy robots which don’t get their careers done since we probably transcend intelligence with cocky wits, romantic vulgarity, pleading eyes, and hollering silence.  Some Hawaiian journalists don’t want fools to make mistakes and feel passing information must be laid over them like pavement.  I try to keep my excitement levels at bay when disappointment strengthens its pitch, thus Chuck E. really tries my impatience with pertained kids music concerts while my dad self-antagonizes over cheese pizzas melted in.  For restaurant companies, I have a question: what’s the strength of every Facebook liker when internet visitors provide unimpressive information on their clicks without recording their magnificent voices or filming their physics?  Chuck E. Cheese’s music can be on videogame consoles that belong to children!  Adults talk over their families at tragic moments while lazy customers groan about epic opportunities at dining facilities.  If a picture only had a thousand words to it, perhaps we can’t intrinsically leer into practical completions such as huge pepperoni motions and sour mustard flees.  Mr. Cheese is a possible costume guy for kid juggling.  Few mathematical cups of measured drugs fail to display the correct clues for family matters and fortunate or unfortunate results, so I claim beverages twirl around messy tables for divided parties and that real political spectrums just keep rewinding and fast-forwarding in proper moral physics, as long as we’re not dangerous or insipid.  Attempt to imagine new graphics for reality!  Humankind’s flows mix with the natures until the ginormous pop rings through this galaxy; in fact, it’s an abstract galaxy.  I try out vague opinions because mystery should be witnessed.  Just understand citizenry!  Pairs of alcohol can hang near designed pizza bringers, even after them.  Bored individuals are just too pooped out in order for many lovers to cherish hands; to add something for fear, comprehension unfolds between beers of whine.  So, what’s focus to a poet with unknown thoughts?  Public lavatories can be very clean when stains aren’t absolute; they’re patched with geometry, tied to private affairs which vanish as strangers peer across their skins and zips.  Isn’t a restaurant’s porcelain throne a stained weapon of empty results?  My attention spans are off kilter, for I see cups of alcohol while zooming to return to our interpreted freedom, just to explain my confusion deficit as it strikes me pretty with alluring psyche reflections.  Too many grownups assume shared context of judgment when they are blinded by obligations; can we be sure that obligations aren’t messages?  I’ve pushed waste too long to be easily convinced that party adults shouldn’t drink beer.  Businesses like Chuck E. Cheese’s Restaurants need to stop presenting impersonal rules.  We must assume authority and share it with people, so we can juice that life with great situations which involve participation rather than isolating bosses.  Let’s be more inquisitive with our personalities, here.  Domination should only be a dangerous kind of exhaustion, rather than a lucrative variation of snobbery.  Chuck E. Cheese’s Restaurants need buzzed believers.

   

Golf Review, KPMG Women’s Golf: Final Round, 2016

Golf Review, KPMG Women’s Golf: Final Round, 2016

Henderson swings from a few awkward hills before and after women golfers for KPMG try around blades of stretching lawns to gain victories for lean athleticism in addition to a giant silver gold trophy with curved handles.  There’s happiness with a fruity stash.  What’s particular to Piller, Lexi, Ko, their athletic swingers in general is a putter’s metal to its engraved ball of colorful reflections against mixed bright sunshine.  Lovely faces whisk over hills while sunshine keeps pouring them.  I watch tunes of Golf Channel’s rings before visiting my television to erupt over cut graphics.  Piller takes good stances during lofty concentration to steep airs winding Earth’s gravity, so she carries weight throughout bleak moments to rectify geographical situations above greener plant shines.  Colors arouse my words as I fit the bill into golf’s subtle features; indeed, golfers switch between motions and stoppings because aim may imply relaxation instead of tremendous powers occasionally.  If someone can’t take my words, how does that person ever hope to play golf?  There’s a bargain for peace that is to golf’s transcending surprises quite complex since golf equipment really marks those soft conditions towards a golf athlete’s comprehension of freedom: boom, boom, boom.  Brooke becomes the Canadian winner of KPMG after Thompson goes into the positives beyond par.  A woman’s eyelashes remind me of Sesame Street characters especially when a muppeteer’s imagination for fluffy appearances resembles passion kinds of familial determination.  I don’t know if Lexi tickles Elmo, but she’s not by his golden fish bowl.  Piller doesn’t exactly need to see all angles of the golf land, for geographical happenings occur through problems since situations always involve evidence.  Let’s not ignore Henderson’s yelp of glee: opinionators have powers every day in spite of importance or ego specifics.  Now, golfers must assume some kind of truth or else tragic mistakes downplay their confidence aim.  A golfer’s clothes do not lack all meanings simply because his or her behaviors aren’t materials; in fact, materials and behaviors can be considered stuff when responses exist for golf equipment and for the golf lands themselves.  This claim interests me and I hope it interests golfers.  So many objects and goals appear as miniscule hints to Earth’s welfare although we’re in the buckets of Earth’s natures living into various materials, thus Henderson’s sudden times of stern peeks transcend Earth’s golf equipment back and forth with fresh statuses.  Piller wears a shaded azure jacket over her blinding gleam yellow shirt; the yellow shirt gives off really shiny reflections when her jacket is off and I think about the possible rules of conduct for golf sports.  A dark blue jacket can look so strong when one contrasts it to the usually lighter blue sky, but I own feelings of concord rather than sensations about permanent irritations.  Piller looks like a traffic signal with the blinding yellow shirt and Henderson’s appearance is milder with a pair of cobalt blue pants that doesn’t reflect as much light.  I guess there’s more to a golfer’s hill uniform other than shapes and colors, textures and reflections of golf clothes when shapes and colors can mold into layers.  You see?  Well, Ko shares fruit with someone who has bigger hair.  Writings about golf resemble songs more than pictures.  Why else can our sounds be called “notes?”  Henderson fights through swing after swing to make ends meet and stay connected, so she lifts her irons because of her levels of comfort and attempts at numerous hills and grassy curves.  Golfers know to rely on handfuls of geographical input given by their assistants; however, talks between golfers and golf assistants go back and forth in lots of swirling help dialogue.  When I discuss businesses, I tend to follow their mannerisms for name creating and come up with spectacular metaphor phrases; not only is there that special name factor that most businesses take advantage of and comprehend in flying colors, but I treat it like grammar clues which may improve on language appearance and word text saturation of business creativity.  In abstract theories, I can refer to KPMG not explaining commonplace meanings, letting readers see the proper name phrase’s capital letters of information color.  I’m a business seer with mathematical attention spans while mentioning comparable hair sizes, wearable golf clothing, Henderson’s victory strides, Piller’s gaiety of weight, Ko’s dolce fruit salad, even bold statements about golf lands features of light and air.  Of course, I have eyelashes.  The 2016 KPMG Women’s Golf is action packed with slower physics than usual for women’s golf, thus I admit Piller and Henderson have solid variations of focus they earn through heated motions and sunnier days for non-freezing moments about super golf transitions.  Henderson’s gladness shows in the most petite details and the absolutely enormous hints which golf fans observe.

     

European Delicatessen Review, Tip Top Meats 6118 Paseo Del Norte Carlsbad, California 92011

European Delicatessen Review, Tip Top Meats  

6118 Paseo Del Norte  Carlsbad, California  92011

Creamy Liverwurst, Big John Little John, Tannish Pottaters, Gravy Mash, Yummy French, Hashed Sauerkraut, Cabbage Knots, Father Salad, Working Coleslaw, First Ribs, Concoction Soup, Rolling Dinners, Smokey Brat Knacks: you’re talking about countries in a house!  The blue apron workforce’s attachments of lurid connection become swaying physics near a coffee pot garbage can, American Spirit Paintings, European Spirit Paintings.  This great foods house starts before ginger depletes and the Stella Artois company wets a native hiker’s thirst buds, as aroused eyebrows over shoulder employees twitch for their grand velocity and then eyes regress pupils to returns delicacy.  Liverwurst texturizes with pasty spam akin to its molded appearances as I nibble Big John above grandma’s used wrists, coloring sweet brown for twin bread slices after dad’s invigorating sauerkraut reflects Tip Top Meats’ brisk atmosphere out of blinding white shreds.  Kraft Salad squeaks in mild roughness of swishing audible bursts from torn strip lettuce patches; sour foil cannot be eaten, the curvy plates stopping food before human sips of relishment occur.  Thus on, laborers in their extended contacts with picky chewers satisfy physical needs of gaiety and obligation without trendy behaviors or demanding expectations, although Tip Top Meats’ fashionable wits are predictable enough after guarding years through in the quality names about the intensive care their workers trade into our minds.  Brittle beat slivers flow along forks as the Julian Family determines crumbs when jolly cleaners roam around softer wood-colored tables with gentle elbow room and wash away the sweat and spit of deli onlookers.  Tip Top Meats’ mediated endeavors by glowing menu bars if also electric plastic taste boards are hints of stern psychological personalities that rain on their struggle parade with concerned visages; I’m enchanted because fluorescent bulbs hang in Tip Tops’ careful balance of tongued responses, plus European cookies spill quite a few joules while Polish Lion Candy is shelved with Alaskan Coffee Dark Chocolate and mysterious wrappers.  My reading methods complicate matters enough for my theory of endearment which causes this mixture of passions that I draw with the English alphabet, so my favoritism of confusion relates: Tip Top Meats is a ginormous deli facility with several quarters for their exotic west flavors, a huge roof over more walls as the deli prepare-ments remind me of Italian turkey sammiches and too Tehachapi Albertson’s or Ralph’s signatures, especially when I imagine extra varieties of Liver & Onions across California and intrinsically speculate.  I can see Tip Tops’ meals through windows against sunshine allusions, to enjoy spammy liverwurst beneath azure paint during provocative holidays for me and the Julian Family: together, together, together, together, together.

Gas Station Review, Arco AM-PM 625 Sycamore Avenue Vista, CA 92083

Gas Station Review, Arco AM-PM

625 Sycamore Avenue  Vista, CA  92083

Paralysis of fun above levels of concord talks really exists with a believer’s agitated excitement like mine while insults to a poor lady’s comfort from street thieves annoy my appetite for sociality, myself to regress in happiness because depression lifts my drinking skills higher than insanity.  Ginger Brew Rockstar?  There’s domination of selections due to untraditional mannerisms on my part, although Rockstar’s organic island flavors may rattle up delicious saliva inside my crazy good head.  Rockstar’s ginger brew tastes like refined enough sugar to please my motives about T.G.I. Friday’s Sour Cream & Onion Potato Fritos.  (Okay, so lots of things look like fritos to me!)  Think of Coca-Cola and Pepsi-Cola as distinguished cola recipes no matter how little attention is paid to their carbonated differences; in fact, most cola differences hardly have names just like oranges are named after colors: sometimes a drinker is just like a painter who actually comprehends the bubble streams of Perrier, so I actually go with club soda when the cookies are plain and simple.  Pepsi can’t be crystal enough; blue cola reaches another zero in freedom.  Vista Arco involves formal messages to add to their checkerboard aisles; yes, I have lots of taste in shapes for others to understand, pondering about curvy diamond almonds and Lay’s chips resembling surfboards.  Albertaco’s Burrito Restaurant next door has been a hotspot architecture medium for tarnished yellow hues and unfamiliar communication, but I pass orders between that joint and this joint for language cravings and tangible intuitions; to remark on my diversions of impudence, thoughts in my mind don’t escape me but cook up in my boca and beyond casino feathers.  Extremely many emotions swell up my appetite until it’s gone into the clouds like a hammer on a picture, so plenty of Rockstar Drinks return my flavors even when my sagacity relates to a gas station’s magnetic impulses.  Vista Arco isn’t icing on a cake but icing inside a cake that works its way through the layers: if an Arco worker keeps in tune with lines of forgetful buyers, he or she attempts to imaginatively and psychologically embrace on customer ideas that burn from needs as well as wants.  Needs and wants seem pretty much the same to me since our relations with those extremes don’t always implant the hate; besides impudence, when I call out a few questions so many times throughout the vacation processes of sweet compromises, I gear up official sodas and refined candy so that Vista Arco shimmies up their visible building creation by poster salutes, color pronunciation, tough flag images, even what seems to be curtailing cement to a weird guy like me who fixes his tastes with alluring bags of wrinkled jerky and imposter Rockstars.   

Poetry Collection Review, “Words from a Wanderer” by Alexandra Elle

Youtube Video- Words from a Wanderer by Alex Elle (Book Signing & Brunch): VLOG

Poetry Collection Review, “Words from a Wanderer” by Alexandra Elle

With Elle’s romance communication wet to the dry bone and cute summers rolled back in picture forms Elle looks from divided texts like a secretive business human in this collection’s self-preparation writs and hot a half-wild imagination suits her weathered tastes, I’ve dedicated myself in reading thus far, and a week ago I was bedazzled from her womanly claims that she must be pregnant when it happens and that all intentions are bad according to Elle.  On Amazon’s Unlimited Kindle App Elle’s black and white literature stands out applying shredded trees in a kind of saturated work of art, myself clicking away on my phone to go through note after note of Elle’s conditioned freedom, 2 ½ inch pages rolling near my phone face and beginning the stormy tales back to my enthused consciousness.  Freedom can’t exist without abstraction.  Words bright with the shining sights, Elle participates in her proclamations which can be mixed up with others’ and designate her shrouded character of daily quips, but Elle reels up with some horrific sensations instead of waiting quietly in the dust.  Elle pinpoints during modes of relaxation at past references and intrinsic emotions; she can smile faster than she can write even if it pains her at precious moments.  She closes her book and stands debating whether her elapsed history is a fork or a knife; she gets aroused on the idea of having plenty of children with a gross metaphor being “seeds,” even if her past experiences wash out one passion for another.  In fact, she’s a lady with lots of shades of so many colors: what happened in the past might startle her now.  Great numbers of passions in her falling mind keep her in imaginary company even if citizens don’t always abide to each other, making her doubt and refute those memes she inscribes, causing her to tank the long silent nights due to growing measures beside her bed teared up.  When I talk about tears, think of tears instead of tears so your dreams don’t wake up too ravishingly when there’s danger at the door and a believer begs elusive pardons; when Doctor Elle says things can get worse from here, I think her deniable hopes churns the butter soft and sweet since her fantasized days of love slumbers.  So by 2016 Autumn (an autumn after the millennium) on my tread of abstract literacy with a floating screen book over the fleshy digits as I handle it, Elle’s self-hospitality and cuddly notions invite her into more nosy affection to bring her spirit of mild despair toward guideful coming attractions of openness and comprehendible fatigue.  Elle’s statements of vague wisdom go along like soaring bubbles as each poem or note is fairly fixed with Elle’s varying tones of voice; I get picturesque hints, Elle’s flowing vibes kind of scrambling until there’s more than enough knots in her delightful input.  Or perhaps many boys loved her- after all, boys are chicks too.  I may talk about Elle’s disoriented worlds of thought as her ladled passions burn up inside her mind with the momentary silence of doom, but she combats against it with a cute fever and determines relationships as clean before and after the messes.  Elle moves closer to her passions to also get away from them as thirst bright creeps into my mouth sandwich behind wisdom teeth; I play with my mouth as a poet and ramble out her phrases “A Note2 Self- Dear Self” seeking psychological approval as much as I can imagine it.  I sense distress of glee in her context of meaning when informal proportions to her natural exaggerations quite inform me of Elle’s enthusiasm over healing.  Isn’t it significant that Elle puts one of Tolkien’s poems about the book’s front page, maybe aware that their talents aren’t in the easy reach of circles?  She listens to the most sensational dreams when horror possibly exists in them in bits; then, as if it’s her forte, there’s dominating regression on her part and she starts to downplay storms, pregnancies, and selective circumstances.  It’s not hard to create new ideas, but old ideas are sometimes pieces of cake which must constantly move around and fill up one’s senses.  Elle’s gender of baby making is like this box that a female must think outside of once in a blue moon; sex even mentions a redheaded heart asking about a lazy guy, exclusive motions from the buildings keeping passions at their thrills.  Poetry isn’t merely romantic; agony’s involved for numerous fish.  Elle grooves low and silent at many epic points until female communication reaches this roar of the positive millennium: years of regret have dripped into the bucket she kicks while being alive, so dim circles come around her sanity.  Obviously when there’s my feelings for her feelings philosophy becomes just gust one around poor barren shoes I own; the amen is already there, like a cat in a fair rather than a dog in a fight, and her passions have to mix up with her emotions so the lady can walk the plank and come out swimming.  As Elle talks around without visits to obvious notions of passion, the enticing attitude over her literary temple opens up to giant rooms of her engrossed imagination although “Words from a Wanderer” isn’t extreme in external concepts; that’s to explain she probably wonders so much about herself that she doesn’t always know who she is: there’s theories about mannerisms that are commonplace for a woman’s identity, so there’s more information in the book about emotions than about actions.  As a matter of fact, even her emotion info is based on generalizations instead of concrete problems.  The poetic author leans over my psyche with condensed orations; still, Tolkien’s poem about “crownless kings” complements Alexandra Elle’s small bit of visionary conversation about “stormy sunshine.”  The book doesn’t explicate the conundrums but shines upon them, Elle taking baby steps and adult strolls to illustrate encouraging romance over herself as a wild flower with seeds and popularity that’s at the tip of her tongue.

Store Review, Costco Wholesale 3800 Rosedale Highway Bakersfield, CA 93308

Store Review, Costco Wholesale 

3800 Rosedale Highway  Bakersfield, CA  93308

From rough toppings we’d like mathematical cheese for our combinational pizza slices until Costco’s wicked beauty really almost fades to black, since the cardinal tequila bottles hang in the balance against gross shopping carts treading over stained cement floors.  My cheap soda shall persuade me I’m a nourished dude as long as deep chicken bakes wake up my inner buds of hot air flavors; of course, Costco’s inching times churn the foam over my wide space comfort in the face of urban evils, then I explicate tall discounts to be either refined costs or quick trades of dime and nickel.  Costco isn’t just about gasoline and rapid foods, folks!  Let’s try to consider the tooth-picked samplings of marvelous snacks like real working sausage, vitagummies, shadowy coffee jars, prickly tequila, scalding turkey sandwiches, saucy candy packages, cupped melting stuff, just so extremely many assortments of iced seafood, lit meats, too much peanut butter and more, with Costco’s directed materials for fast growth and pure oil.  You can guess: Pepperoni, Cheese, Combo… okay!  Who says that only vegetables are combinations?  I try to keep it personal by surprising cashiers with strange orders of briskets and caesars, only to discover barred ceilings which shout out the concrete disgust in my diseased psyche; at least, with gentle pushing in strokes of imagination, I can ultimately heal these malicious worries soaking up my attention, turning them from exotic pauses into conscious tides.  Sometimes a pizza’s toppings get chillier than its cheese while I softly munch those crevasses of pimpled crust and Kirkland’s salt, bringing hot notions working into pebble creeks of dreams at last so I and my dad ride hands to an electrified steering wheel.  Great hurt of exhaustion melts my tongue to its local popularity so Costco can share it; in fact, Rosedale Costco may grow out of its limbs with exclusive surprises like the iPhone excitement raid or spectacular olive water, although Costco’s frugal compromise turns out to be cardinal hints of great purchases.  Loose directions can lead me to bigger slumbers just as the melting pot rises: pop, pop, pop… Not to mention, Costco’s ambiance can’t be like a tiny closet’s atmosphere with the elongated holes at their entrance/exit paths; plus, upon my stomach against myself I’ll tread through geometrical aisles on heavy physics for rations because food is medicine.  “Just a spoonful of sugar and the medicine will go down!”  Now, now, now, I have a rosy insight of Costco’s pepperoni which is also Kirkland Signature Pepperoni, so my personal might only stirs my awareness with the better glee of someone: my dad.  When a customer gets a harsh savoring of something, it’d be beneficial if he or she would try to get as much creative sensation as possible.  Bakersfield Costco is like that awning tile over wicks, brooms, and stones: if you might leave with the other elements, you’d just might be bombarded over your own fortitude of compromises.