After spending a grueling hour and a half attempting to manipulate and deplete my one hundred plus word sentence of its cumulative format, intensified by this task's semblance of the "Kiss of Death," a kiss completely unlike a "first" kiss, the tender sweet kiss where lips barely touch yet the sensation is toe-tingling and mind-boggling, the kiss that can never be repeated simply because it is the first kiss, the kiss that asks "Can you be trusted - do you promise not to break my heart?", the same kiss that makes me wonder "What the HELL was I thinking!" in regards to my former spouse, the man who obviously prefers petite, perky blondes with large, perfectly symmetrical silicone breasts, breasts that stand at attention as if they were saluting the entire armed forces when lying flat on one's back, unlike normal small breast that disappear completely under the same circumstances or large breasts that flop to the side as if their aim is to seek safe refuge under our arms pits, the blonde that has moments so monumental that Miss Clairol seriously considers pulling her product from the market to alleviate possible claims filed by an aggressive attorney alleging that peroxide does indeed feed upon brain cells, which in turn, produces mindless bimbos that men such as my former spouse prey upon with the rapaciousness of wild beasts, I scrapped the first sentence only to realize this one is no better.