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Howhow, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Haow-haow: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of two steps down the palate to tap, at two, never touching the teeth. Haow. Haow. He was Ho, plain Ho, in the morning, standing 8 feet ten in one sock. He was How in slacks. He was Howie at school. He was Howhow54321 on the dotted line. But in my channel He was always Howhow. Did he have a precursor? He did, indeed he did. In point of fact, there might have been no Howhow at all had I not created, one summer, an initial club penguin account. In a princedom by the plaza. Oh when? About as many years before Howhow was born as my age was that summer.
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