Saint Brett

Dear Mr. Favre, my computer is working just for you. You need to be MEDIUM to Terry Bradshaw and clean the Alzeihmer's myth out of the NFL. No more orange juice. Juice PEACHES, even canned, instead. You should be dead, but instead you are a corpse to remember. Think of GOOD times and do not speak of head injuries. I miss the old you. It was so fun seeing your light in the Twin Cities. Now the crazy of here is in your head. Turn to me instead, and we can grab hands and jump off the cliffs at Taylor's Falls, but only after you pass an extension GEOLOGY class with ANY online University, you IGNEOUS ROCK, you. Hang out with only GOLDEN RETRIEVERS and then you will see a really neat service quality that you have around me. We have done it all remotely, but it does not mean that I do not have a neat energy memory of yee. Maybe stalking wasn't your scene. You are more a ROSEBUD.