"We need not to be let alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while."
It started in 2016 when a mechanical tiger with a penis for a tail whipped it around so fast that the Scotsman couldn't stop it from inserting into his belly button and impregnating him with a vision, a vision that we'd get hitched someday -- hitched like he and the tiger were.
I told him that dreams were for people whose navels get raped by robot kitties.
He told me I was right and spent the next seven years in a little shack next to a waterfall in the desert, eating microchips and meowing.
(If you choose to be the Scotsman in his current state, turn to Page 88. If you choose to return home and claim the love of your fiery vixen despite your lack of decoder ring, turn to Page 32.)
This profile's theme song:
一. I expect you to know what death feels like. You have been beaten, branded, broken, abandoned, lobotomized, militarized, and betrayed by the love of your life.
B. I expect you to be dark as a result of your battles. You have a thirst for blood, a desire to violate, torture, twist, rape. You fantasize about bones breaking to know the sound taboo makes.
III. I expect you to know better, despite -- and because of -- what you've witnessed and done. You are a source of light all the more due to your shadow. You are an honorable king and the best parts of child and man: kind-hearted with staff in hand.
Come on, Cupid: I'm not asking for much -- just a Messianic ninja who shares his crayons. Geez.
1. Masturbate thinking about your dream.
2. Masturbate watching mommy porn.
3. Urinate before you explode.
4. Masturbate to a random list of fetishes.
5. Decide if you have any of these fetishes.
6. Masturbate to the rest of the list (It was a long list).
7. Drink a glass of water to cure the onset of dehydration.
8. Masturbate quickly this time because of 9 and 10.
9. Remove disgraceful panties, splash face with water, and throw on fatigues.
10. Deliver money order to apartment office. Keep yourself in check. Don't look them in the eye.
11. Watch the rest of the horror movie that you didn't finish yesterday because you started masturbating.
Oo-de-lally, oo-de-lally, et cetera.
In reality, I'm probably regressing. After December, I plan to be crawling and expect to be bottle-fed. Bring on the freaks. *lifts her wrists for the haul* But who's here for reality's sake anyway?
Last year I started working with a lot of soon-to-be-dead people. I realize now more than ever how often people die.
Once. *serious face*
...telekinesis, a.k.a. taking things too far. I made a 6'7", 340-pound black man shove me and the horse I rode in on without saying a word. "Ask her how, folks, after this commercial break."
*huffs on her fingernails and rubs them on her shirt*
Yeah, I wear shirts -- and I'm really good at it.
Update: I stopped being good at wearing shirts.
How about "...not so good at"?
...being female. I kind of suck at it. (Har di har) I should be using my magical vagina to tease and catch a mate in my dewy web. Instead, I proceed with the itemized list below.
But more likely...
A. You'll send me a text message, and I'll type, "Phones are for calling." You'll send me another text message, and I'll ... nothing. *Debbie Downer trombone*
Alternate beginning: You'll tell me that I have a nice voice, and I'll see your small talk and raise you conversation that makes you question why you called me.
Deux. You'll submit and meet me at a video arcade bar. You'll try not to stare at my diastema, and I'll try not to cry that Street Fighter is all coming back to you now. We'll exit; I'll hug you like my life depends on its being the best physical contact you've ever experienced, and you'll leave thinking that you missed something -- or gained something; you're not quite sure.
47% life. You'll convince me that a breakup is inevitable for the betterment of our individual futures. You'll say that you can't understand how someone so caring and sincere can be so immature and self-absorbed. I'll think that you're projecting and cling to you like that first day, and you'll believe that you've been a good influence on me.
But I guess that's the last thing you'll notice.
This girl gives me a back-of-the-head boner: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=81l8LZPJLUQ
I brought A Serbian Film over to one guy's place. After I left, he jilted me on account o' that I was too innocent for him. "But, but -- say what in the...?" Compared to that movie, anything seems innocent.
Balam Acab is my dreamscape. Purity Ring is my speech. And I want to make love to Esther Perel (Don't search for her; you'll only find heartache).
"We'll enter that sweet period where everyone agrees not to repeat the recent horrors. Of course we're fickle, stupid beings with poor memories and a great gift for self-destruction. Although, who knows? Maybe this time we'll learn."
On a more serious note
...Alice's restaurant. I wonder what it was called.
By Saturday morning, I've got no PJs left. Maybe I'm missing the point.
Survey says ... I'll either come across as 1) an overly submissive, co-dependent crybaby or 2) a male-attention-seeking, anal brat. My id's continual push for tectonic sex and my super-ego's desire for monogamy defeat my soul's patient search for a healthy connection to surpass all connections.
Comments from the peanut gallery:
"Physical beauty isn't that important to me, so you lucked out there. I'd give you a high five out of 10."
Ouch. Time for a joke:
*widens her arms and does a Superstar drop to the knee* Ta-da!
Now give me a high five.
What I just said to a gorgeous girl:
"I don't know why I feel so shy. It would be easy if I were just going to lick you, like not even look you in the eye. But to sit down and have you make contact with this alien, man, that's nerve-racking."
I have officially entered a state of idiocy, original DSM-style.
But you're a rebellious guy, so I'll break it down fer yuh. (Hm, my patronization is extra head-patty today.)
Let's pretend that reality hasn't settled into your a-cappella-powered surround-sound, destroyed the nostalgia-inducing magic of your child-like might, and taken a hold of your soul like the red-headed Mexican it may be, and let's also imagine that you're the single best combination of mathematical and heart-sexual variables firmtle enough to tackle my box and my brain for a space-time interim or eternity determined by wormholes of fortuitous intuition.
Even then, you'd still be no match for my water-drenched Gizmo. Exhibits: "How dare you leave an eyelash on my bed; get out! Come cuddle me." "Marry me in the woods at midnight. Who are you again?" "Rape me in my sleep -- in mah butt. Not yet!"
Jus' typin': This is the end, my friend. May your stay here have provided you with a deep sigh of accomplishment and a bit o' closure on your perception of "P'sh, women. Am I right?" -- because all that's left is a half-beaten horse and a wet electric blanket.
*picks up mic that she dropped when she was five* That's right. I'm that good.
I approve of this message.
P.S.: I'm also (obviously) in the market for a psychotherapist with expertise in the fields of sexual compulsion and autism. You know a guy?
*packs up her show -- to the tune of "Little Boxes"*
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