“Darlin…”, the devil said, with a drawl so pronounced, you could smell mama’s chicken and okra on the stove, “…if we are not permitted on occasion, to bathe in the pools of self pity, lathering ourselves with the soothing essence of misery, while washing our hair in the effervescent pearls of despair, then what pray tell are we doing here…”
Justification
Ron Lanham Writing 
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