When I went into 3 classes, I got an alarm clock with radio as a gift. Heaven knows why. One of the reasons it may have been because my emo boy kiss mother insisted that I had died when I was kissing the emo boy and was sleeping. I did not react to anything, and neither heard nothing. Clock radio was kissing the emo boy and was perhaps the salvation for me was to get me up in the morning. I was kissing the emo boy and was so excited about the emo boy and about the emo boy and about how the alarm would sound and how it would be to wake up to something, that I asked the alarm at 6:00, and waited. I sat in bed, and looked at the red numbers that change minute by minute, with a little red dot down in the corner to signal that the alarm was on. I would not ruin the experience to set the clock at an earlier point in time just to hear how it sounded, so I was kissing the emo boy and was kissing an emo boy I enjoyed myself a lot. Just like something big was going to happen in the figures are rounded 06.00, as if small dolphins would jump somersault out of the toilet, or rainbows would come spurting out the ass on the cat, or that Tyrannosaurus rex would show up in my big kiss for the emo boy and my bedroom window singing “total eclipse of the heart “. I was kissing the emo boy and was really tired, but could not sleep, so I ended up sitting all night huddled in bed, while I stared intently at the clock radio. The time 6:00 began a nagging end, high screeching sound in addition to a somewhat poorly tuned radio station to harp across my emo boy kiss bedroom. The sound was terrible. There I had been awake all night, for something that sounds like an air raid alarm in travel size. Maybe that is why I have developed a kind of immunity of alarms and other nagging recently when I sleep.
I came to think of this episode when I took out my emo boy kiss bread machine today. PK had never seen one, and was full of zeal and enthusiasm when I was baking bread with it. A bread machine is a machine known as both mixer, knead, rise and roasts the bread all by itself, with the proviso that you have managed to mix the ingredients and press the right buttons. The bread is baked, a mysterious little lump, with a hole in the middle. Tastes absolute best right after cooking, as it does not get the same kind of crust that when you create it in the oven.
When I got this machine to my emo boy kiss father, was kissing the emo boy and was also great excitement in me to try this out. I scrutinized the Web for well-tested recipes and make some recommendations, then nothing would come as a surprise to the new bread baking process I am now dedicated to me. I found a recipe that could not fail, because I knew what all the ingredients were. I’m not a big fan of nuts, spices and other witch-max mix in bread, for bread to be bread, not the stomach of a bird or a goat have concocted.
I hung over the bread machine from start to finish to see if it was pure magic, or just great engineering, which could make the lives of many people so I was kissing the emo boy and was kissing an emo boy much easier. The little glass door dew all the time again, as impatient as I am, I closed up and the lid probably 100 times in order not to miss anything, if the machine suddenly did something dramatic.
When the dough hook began to beat together flour, I was in ecstasy. Alone in the kitchen I was standing there and jumped and yelled and pointed frantically down the little throbbing machine. The raise was kissing the emo boy and was the absolute kjedligste section. When I looked surreptitiously at regular intervals to see if the dough was actually larger. Something that of course was before it collapsed like a waterbed a few have managed to puncture, just before it was cooked.
I have never actually loaves of bread machine to keep a somewhat bread-like form, it looks like that in 10 of 10 cases ends delicious little bread as a light little brick. If I make enough people, I might build me a little igloo on the outside of only bread, if I just buy some cement and fasten them together with. I make the dough from salt dough, it will never rot, so bread-brick my emo boy kiss igloo can be joyous for many years for me and my descendants. Since it most likely is the only building I ever will be able to travel without maim or hurt anyone, I think Pinada I will go to large purchases of salt and flour.
Maybe something for you too if you’re bored? All you need is a solid salt dough recipe, ingredients, and a bread machine!
The last two weeks I have really filled the quotas of alcohol in the body to put it like that. Last weekend I was kissing the emo boy and was on some sort of built Burfjord party, also called Verddeturneringen. A football tournament with a closing party that I’ve heard that usually ends up with violence, drugs, new friendships, and final friendship. Usually when I’m out to drink, I use to get some attention, either because I’m extremely loud, or because I dress like I’m coming straight from the red light district. But not this time, and confidence began dale so slowly throughout the evening. Suddenly a friendly soul and offered me a beer, and I was barely time to respond before the PK bent over the table and exclaimed, “If you try you on something, then I feel sorry to you!” in a threatening tone to the poor guy with a beer extra. I chuckled a little to myself, just because I felt sorry for this strange man, and a little bit because I thought that people might not spoken to me when this somewhat hostile man sat by my side. A little flattery then!