I feel like it was maybe an hour or two ago that I positively made up my mind on the girl I want Santa to deliver, kindly and respectfully and with all permission slips signed, beneath my Christmas tree. Then I have to go and be inundated with Abigail Ratchford extreme curvaceous hotness and my Yuletide log is now running the brain, if you know what I'm saying.
Abigail Ratchford, already my Pennsylvania Dutch common law wife, though we've yet to consummate in the tradition of our ancestors, would make the most lovely bit of mammarial stacked and asstastic round and perfect unwrapped gift beneath the old Walmart aluminum pine this year. How long have I longed to get lose in that heavenly body of Abigail's. Well, since Santa sported a neatly groomed ironic hipster mustache and skinny jeans. Abigail, I will make my chimney larger. I must have you. Doesn't raw desire and begging count for anything anymore? Enjoy.
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