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The Perks of Being a Carnation



Let me explain to you what's happened.

There is an outrageous void in my life. Void of not only Dat Dick, but of the mahfucka that comes with it.

It's terrible, you guys. It's really just a pushpin in my pussy nowadays. I used to write all the time. And it turns out I only did that because I wanted to be relevant to a very very specific audience. And now that I've lost this audience, I have no motivation to express my shit. This audience helped me develop a callous titty in the face of a seductive mouth. Not literally. Literally, everybody knows that's not true. But metaphorically, I don't give a shit about nothing. When I was 19, I really did love getting hung up on a mahfucka. I loved drugs too. Still down with some drugs, not down with a mahfucka though.

Also consider that I have been presently working in childcare for more than several months, I do not seek to utilize my free time in thought. Children are fucking tiresome. They will terrorize your energy to piss itself away no matter what kind of carbonated donkey sperm you decide to drink. Any thought requires effort. And any thought usually leads to the conclusion that my dreams are quietly being differed by time. I can only glut the soul with shitty stupid celebrity gossip. I don't think it's shitty. I love it. But I can see what makes it a universal cultural hemorrhoid. Anyway, that's all my brain's been eating, so my bref is smellin like Kim Kardashian's asshole riding Hulk's platinum stache.

 So that's why you've seen the recent influx of erection-milking wig creations popping up. I need to remind myself that I am still able to escape into a landish fantasy of any number of femme fatales. This is a way to maintain my sanity in the face of a true test borne of our Lord Christ. A test to see whether or not I will sink into a lifestyle of conventional post-modern masturbation. Adopt a few kittens and an few hundred pounds. See the kind of pictures I'll take then.

I am nothing but a vessel for the male fantasy. With a mahfuckin mind. You wonder why that doesn't that give me the motivational kick to get out there and get retarded famous?

Because of dicklessness and children. Kids are wonderful. But the dicklessness is getting ridiculous.

Will the inevitable case of Carpal Tunnel be a consequence of a literary catalyst, reducing my hands to the mercy of frenzied inspiration? Or will it be due to the fact that my fingers are locked up like a crooked gun, pruned and primed for darkness?

 LORD JESUS I DON'T KNOW YET.

I do know that while I don't get fucked, I will try to write but I probably won't. My confidence has spiraled into a factory where fucks are made but not given. A derelict of fucks, if you will. Made worse by revisiting absolutely ughh love notes that gathered some of the strangest fucks to have sauntered across the internet and onto my PG-13 porno.

I need two things. Three, but two from you.

One.
Help me. I don't know how you can. I need so much help that I don't even know the help I need but it's most likely money. Or exposure. Enormous and unnecessary quantities of exposure. I'll come live with you. Clean your house all sexy-like. You don't even know what I can do with a feather duster. Support my ass or give me the means to support myself. My skills are limited...but the skills I do have are gold.

Two.
Don't be a dick. Just give it to me and let me sleep alone. And please network for me. Or take me to functions where I will be properly introduced to worthwhile fucks and lowlifes. I hate networking because I AM AWFUL AT IT.

Three is personal but...I'm going to fuck your dad.

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