The other day a friend asked me to right down all the homonyms I could think of. I was holy unprepared for the task:
“Holly cow,” I said allowed. “Their a lot of these.”
“I know, that’s what I thought, two. You mussed do it though. But please try to be discrete about it,” my friend replied. “Its not as if I am going to prophet from this!”
He put so much pressure on me. It felt like I had a pistil pointed at my aye browse. No, it felt like he was pointing a canon at me. Even if I ducked quickly, I doubted the missal would have mist. My friend was going to seer fear into my mined. Maybe I would feel better if he offered me some cache for my work or sang a Christmas carrel.
I excepted his challenge and began creating an affective list. Sometimes its hard to find the rite homonym; just as you begin to wright it, you realize the word isn’t a homonym apteral.
I considered my options for a minute and than began scribbling. Than I got hungry, so I ordered some Chinese Wanton. The whether was good, good enough for a pyknic, so I putt on my shoo and went outside for some air. A large mousse walked by, causing a minor toxin and forcing a frightened creek from my friend.
“You’re running out of thyme,” my friend said, who had obviously been Sheik-en by the animal.
“Your so rued,” I told my friend as I staid put.
I tried to titan my concentration, focusing my cite on objects cloth and fair away. I tried not to steel anyone’s ideas and wait for the tide of thoughts to return. I eight some bytes of food to help my thoughts, butt not even that worked. I thought about bier, but I was underage and not aloud to drink boos.
I was getting frustrated. The energy was draining from my gored. I was a guerrilla without any hare. A loot without any strings.
I decided that was about enough and handed my page to my friend, who called me a succor. He said I was suite, though, and that he would make me an ice cream Sunday for my trouble.
“No problem,” I said before I tiered up, “good-buy.”