Everything is going south. My idea for reusable breath mints never took off. Eight women have left me and headed south. My dart game has disintegrated. My dart board mocks me. Some of my body parts are going south. My memory is somewhere in the Ozarks. I think I have a parrot somewhere, or maybe it got bored with me and flew south.
My trust has gone south. I don't trust the crossing guard, who keeps giving me dirty looks. I'm convinced she will tell me to cross just when an oil tanker is approaching.
My ability to write cogent essays containing concise, clear sentences has also fled far south to Honduras.
And so we come to the end of another blog post and a minute of everyone's time has migrated south.
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