Saint Thomas help me, I am getting as big as a cupboard. I lost track of counting calories. I lay in bed all day read Aristotle and eat. But isn't this the best way to become similar with my supa-dupa favourite saint of all times, the allmighty Thomas Aquinas?? (God I love him) Although, this is the time, Saint Thomas, to tell you something: the principle of individuation is not matter. Definitely not prime matter. Maybe Aristotle didn't even think there was prime matter!!!! There... I said it. There is no way back now, but the truth is sometimes more important than agreeing with our patron saint. (By the way did I tell you, that had I been born a boy I would have been baptised Thomas? Or Peter, but that's fine, I like Peter. The one I don't like is that awful epileptic Paul... Noone likes Paul, all that jibber-jabber about love.. nonsense.) Anyway I am porking out but keeping as chaste as ever: I am not leaving the house so there is no temptations, except for the well developed marble chest of my faithful Aristotle.
What is more, today I got this chicken dish for free, because I made a scene in the MATCH (Which is as we all know, the purgatory of those housewives who commited adultery in thought! With men, yuck!). Anyway I taught those harlots who is the master of this valley of death, they bowed in fear and obedience in behold of my sacred anger and served me this froze microwaveable ambrozia, which I am having at 7:13 am with a beer.
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