From deep, deep in the cotton-pickin' red clay'd piney woods o' east Texas, I bring you the tales of my sister Bethzilla, hideous freakin' white trash welfare-cheatin' pill-popping, bowl-smoking, vodka-swilling redneck swamp thing what done crawled up out of the danged boggy bottoms of Uncertain, Texas and also of Momma, a transplanted, dirt-floored, rice paddy, hand-raised Cajun girl from the south Texas depression era. Take a look see. Go ahead, lookee.
Signs Of Depression In The Transitional Living Facility Bunk Bed
My roommate, a Navy guy named Pat and a car-dweller from Indiana, sleeps a lot. We have to be outside of our Home For Wayward Veterans Transitional Living Facility from 8 a.m. until 3 p.m. every day. Pat trudges in at 3, takes a nap until suppertime at 4:30, goes back to sleep at 4:45 until Meds Call at 6 (medications), then hits the rack at 6:15 until breakfast the next day at 6 a.m. That's a lot of sleeping, even for a Navy guy.