January 14, 2014
They say you should put the stuff on your face so i do. A "nightly regimen." I don't know about all that. All I know is I'm old and the stuff smells like warm B.O.
I don't look any different.
I'm sick. Feels like I've chinked open a vault in my chest that houses the world's supply of blood-mucus. My eyebrows feel sagged. I'm a walking drowning.
I need more money.
I need people who feel the same way.
I need to get excited about masturbation again.
So many needs. I can't list them all here.
January 05, 2014
It can outrun me. I’m slow. Blah. So very slow. I’m wet jeans, no belt, sag city shuffle. Throw cream pies at my face. I’ll just have to take it and cry because…slow. So, so slow.
I’m slow so it paces. I get lots of spit in my face. Mucus at first, then just clear bubbly. He hits my tits like scolding. Slaps them red. He calls me fat, lazy, ugly, useless, pathetic. All I can do is agree. It’s true anyway. Spits and hits, spits and hits, spits and hits. I want him to fuck me into full depression. Just be a big fat guy that gives me all that I deserve which is destruction. Shame.
So cool, right?
If you’re in the car with me and Led Zeppelin, we’ll go hard. I’ll turn the knob to the right and my head will move forward and back, forward and back, forward and back. A grin will grow on my face and my eyes will slit a little while my head turns to look at you. If you don’t feel what I’m feeling in that moment, we have no reason to be together from that point forward.