I've enabled automatic spam detection.
You should occasionally check for your comments in my spam inbox.
It's located behind my right ear, although, like loose change, your comment might have escaped from a hole and gotten caught in the lining of my skin.
It's intact. Most of the time.
But shake me. Rattle me. Roll me around and, look!
Out pops your comment about me needing to lose weight. (Spam-1988)
Or yours-what was it?-Who do you think you are? We were just fine before you came along. (Spam-1996)
Or yours-It's not like I'm in love with you, or anything. (Spam 2001)
Other comments are copied and pasted. Copied. Pasted. Copied. Pasted.
And run like a record with the needle stuck and the dj off having a smoke or looking at a dirty magazine in the supply closet.
My daughter says you're her favorite teacher.
Some comments appear as headlines and billboards and flash on the screen before a feature film.
Curtains are drawn.
You're one of the most honest people I know.
The movie will start in 10, 9, 8...
Don't get up now. The popcorn can wait.
You're cuddly. You're cuddly. You're cuddly.