Whom I will eat with pleasure after a fancy dinner at a romantic restaurant, the main course consisting of most likely clams and something called balut, which I had at a funeral recently, too, and has a texture that's interesting but that I don't really care for, and the red velvet cake is filled to the brim with a creamy white filling whose constituents I cannot recall or even speculate with confidence yet is still edible if you can tolerate the fact that your palette is totally saturated by the overwhelming and lost sickening sweetness of the cake, but since it's the last meal of the day, the issue of palette isn't too concerning; however, as it is the end of the day, I become afraid of where and how I might dispose of the energy that big meal gave me, and I regret going to the French restaurant, now, and the underwear that I'm wearing with the laces is exceptionally uncomfortable and makes me evaluate how much visceral fat I've accrued since my teens, when I was considerably light, no more than a hundred pounds.
The name reads "momona", but I can only seem to subvocalize the phonetic equivalent to "mamona".
