Oil Blooms Are Short Lived For The Perfect Cavemen Ideal

Oil blooms are short lived. The history of human culture hangs creative spurts upon walls, dashboards, storefronts, and utility vans. The concept of capturing the exact moment of a creative outburst has never had so many possible ways to plume.

Notes from another forehead: the third critical attribute with which to contend in relation to what was previously revealed, especially that stuff about the exact moment: let’s face it, if you are heterozygous for Z, that could be something rare indeed; when relative significance is mentioned by an intellectual such as White, you do get the sense of your own physical disturbance with a post-settlement process; and, those susceptible people, ones with sliced liver rather than chopped, compulsively explode with a variety of inner content via just as many or variable a means: things like conversation, plaster-of-Paris, bus rides, and increased taco consumption.

This suggested to people who never really lived, such as Robinson Crusoe, that some user queries, though they may be automated and performing a set of tasks put before them by some international mastermind from the hacker club at some remote middle school, that multiple document databases made accessible online to perfect cavemen – many of whom can’t even wash their own clothing or make themselves a salad for lunch, feel oxidized to some degree by the formidable ubiquity of the modern technological construct.

It is now time to tell you why, then, it will soon become necessary to carry a passport to enter some of America’s small towns; women playing the bass for alternative rock bands always know this and are approaching a zenith of understanding their inner systems of articulation, expressed by the onslaught of frustrating federal requirements to hit the road; they argue – not the least bit unjustly, that they already are a commodity, so how would they bottle that up and sell it as lemonade near neighborhood fruit stands? That, to them, is evidence of an existing “perfect cavemen” ideal.

The thought of J-Lo not able to hit her sales forecast sickens many of the industry’s top con artists, who fling blame upon the independent labels, rapidly filling with teen girls who wear their hair in such a fashion that it completely covers their face; and, little known to us average Joe’s, some of them do this solely to frustrate the federal security analysts watching them undress between shows.

As we enter the dark halls of garbage, seeking to define that which creates the oil blooms within the long swags of hair masking faces, we move with consistency to discover stylistic imitation of stylistic cultural lifestyles, begging for harsh winters across the prairies of ambivalence, to aesthetically disavow whatever the top moguls in the music industry dictate as cool. Those Haim girls…keep your eye on them! Yeah.