in albuquerque

I don't know about you, but I am so ready for it not to be January anymore. So let's pretend we're in a magical, far away place where the sun is always shining and the air smells like warm root beer and the towels are oh so fluffy; where the shriners and the lepers play their ukuleles all day long and anyone on the street will gladly shave your back for a nickel, wacka wacka doo-doo yeah.


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