I’m alive. I’m not dead yet. And much like a day old kitchen rag scorched in cum from a late night of “Kalifornicating” when you’re far too exhausted to clean yourselves up with lightly embossed toilet paper as civilised people do, I remain intact. Crispy and resilient. Ready to make words from the climax, leaking catastrophic cunnilingus language from the trenches of my head. All the while giving head. Because there’s nothing more stimulating than the sweet smell of copulins running down the walls of satisfaction, as you experience suffocation – head-first between the thighs of a woman who’s almost as bad as yourself.
Incog-fucking-nito. Because the idea of privacy and taking time out of that which is expected of you can only lead to other people’s fear or unwarranted jealousy. Missing in action so I’ve been called. And they question why? Not just the blog neither – actual fucking life. I mean, the blog is great an all. Always glad to see new cumstains on the wall. Clarification, new followers. And the Likes, I am a millennial, isn’t Likes the very thing I live for? justifying my existence an all. If I don’t gain any Likes then I become depressed, suicidal, questionable about life – posting quotes of sadness with a large number of grammatical mistakes, blaming it on mental health issues because trends which garner conversations with other cumstains make for an effective hashtag.
Don’t expect any sad quotes here. Just the same old insults and exposure in regards to the flaws of modern society. Hipsters, depressed writers, foodies, quote posters – no one is safe. The testosterone is high and the bourbon’s on standby. I’ll be sure to wipe my dick on the curtains and wash my hands as I make my way out. Manners an all.
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