image stolen from starchanges.com
A reply that fast– I knew it’d be some hostile cunty thing. I looked anyway.
I hope this woman gets raped. Mutilated. I hope the cartel torture that Matthew McConaughey® describes in True Detective Season 1 episode 4– they tape you to a chair; they use a couple rolls a duct tape so ya cant move an inch. Cut all around your face. Grip into your scalp, peel your face off. Hold up a mirror so you can git a rillll guuuud look… I hope that happens to her. Continue reading
I need the doorbell to ring. It’s you. Come in. Wordlessly bend over and I stick it in your crusty cunt and cum before I’m halfway in because you caught me before my post work jerk. Wordlessly leave. Nine months later send a picture holding a slimy red faced worm. A note that says I don’t want any money. Just wanted you to know.
Come over and power bottom me with an asshole you’ve meticulously purged with spring water. When I cum in 15 seconds your face turns into a screen playing Witcher 3. I need you to fuck me then spread your legs, open your pussy, give birth to another hotter girl who also fucks me while you clean the toilet. Continue reading
image stolen from online-instagram.com
I need a girl who’s a total loser but not bad looking. Who some other guy hasn’t got to first. I need a girl who has no job no car no place to live but not because they smoke crack or some shit. I need a girl who’s smart but no education. Could some day be a good mother but not a girl from a good family, ever– no one who talks to her dad. None of this good college Fortune 500 shit, I need a girl who earns minimum wage at the water store but doesn’t feel compelled to describe herself as CEO of me incorporated or some girly Etsy shit. Ambition makes me puke. I need a girl with no pets no friends who’ll move in with me and shut the fuck up while I play the The Witcher 3. Not even The Witcher 3— I play The Witcher 3 so my Witcher 3 character can play Gwent, the game-within-a-game in The Witcher 3. A girl who won’t talk while I’m playing Gwent all night. Just watch. Continue reading
image stolen from birthcontrolbuzz.com
What the fuck is a guy in a band going to tell me about pussy. I need a sponsor who’s also a pathetic nebbish. Someone who only barely gets laid through excruciating toil.
Went to an SLAA meeting last night. You think it’s gonna be like AA. Where you hear a guy saying woke up from a blackout in upside down in my flipped minivan… felt something warm in my face… it was my son’s blood… I crawled to the liquor store… and everyone laughs. SLAA is a bunch of weird old Lesbians talking about getting molested. 3 young Mexican bottoms with baby deer eyes always on the verge of weeping. One old bear who does, admittedly, have great stories about banging sailors on meth. But it’s all weepy shit. I shared. I hate this organization, I said. No jerking off and no looking at girls. I want sharia law to be imposed but I’d find away to jerk off to a woman’s eyebrows. In conclusion: fuck all of you; this group just makes makes me miserable. No one laughed.
********** Continue reading
Northern shovelers. image stolen from tgreybrids.com
Here is the problem. I truly am addicted to this shit. To sex, to the possibility of sex, to validation from women. Alcohol made me feel good while I was drinking it. But women kept me feeling human for weeks. Months. If I’ve not fucked recently, I’m not a person. I’m not worth being alive.
Once I could get a new one every three months and be OK. Then a week. Now the day after I fuck a woman I might like– if she gets a weird on text the next day I think I’m an ugly freak and no one could ever love me. Fantasize about my lonely childless death. Or while my dick was in one girl, I’d feel desperate about other girls. Continue reading
image stolen from animalfactsencyclopedia.com
I joined Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. Day three of no jerking off. No looking at Tinder, OKCupid. No looking at women with lust in my heart. This means: no looking at women. No fantasizing. Which means: do not think about Lara. Our date to the bird sanctuary. Had to cancel. No thinking about her hair her tits her eyes her face. The curve of her jawline and her neck. Her voice. She likes me. I like her. Kind of a lot. She described me as “a staggeringly talented writer.” We share the exact same opinion on the one important thing.
Don’t think about the taste of her hairy pussy sweating in the summer heat. Her squatting over my face while her AC groans and does not cool the room. No writing about sex unless it’s necessary to the story. Sex is the story. There is nothing else on Earth. Birds, flowers, sunsets: go fuck yourself. Money work friends family sobriety service to other human beings: blow it out your ass. I wake up every morning so I can feel hot salty chowder spurt out of my dick. Preferably into the smelly cooch of an emotionally disturbed teen. Every other moment is just labor to support the meat sac that I am so it can fulfill this purpose. Why have a thoroughbred if you just keep it in the barn. Continue reading