“my nose is full of
"my nose is full of downtown and her lips taste like straight Crown... God knows I should fucking run from this yearn... but I burn" - blues not worth mentioning here
The weekend is so close I can taste it. My mouth is watering like that salty salivation in the seconds you ride the vomit train to the projectile eventuality that meters one of the worst experiences on Earth that doesn't involve pain... but without the bad anticipation. No, this watering is like envisioning sucking on a terribly tart lime or slowly tracing your lover's lips with your tongue, tenderly not kissing. Yes, the goodness of mouth watering that in mere moments will become my stomach full of weekend. Damn that feels good. I may not be able to say I feel like a million bucks (because I don't know what a million bucks feels like exactly), but if I told ya I felt like five bucks and a bottle of cheap gin, the meaning would be the same. I feel energized. I feel alive. I feel decadent. I wanna light stuff on fire and blow shit up and have sex while robbing liquor stores... logically, this poses technical difficulties that may interfere with successful completion of said felony, so we'll throw out the liquor store part... keep the explosives... throw in some kink and throw out the keys to the handcuffs. I smell trouble in a 750 ml bottle and it's calling my name. Turn up the amp. Bollocks the lot of corporate rot. I'm on parole for 48 hours of furloughed fornication. Granted, due to my cursed scruples, it'll probably not be physical... but sociopsychological fornication sounds like more fun that animal crackers in the original circus box. Fuck me wild like Chester before Cheetos sold out (bastards). Chew broken glass. Scream as loud as you can until your throat feels like bursting... stop, drink a pint of lemon juice... repeat. All my fucking rocketsauce. Fuck you.
The weekend is so close I can taste it. My mouth is watering like that salty salivation in the seconds you ride the vomit train to the projectile eventuality that meters one of the worst experiences on Earth that doesn't involve pain... but without the bad anticipation. No, this watering is like envisioning sucking on a terribly tart lime or slowly tracing your lover's lips with your tongue, tenderly not kissing. Yes, the goodness of mouth watering that in mere moments will become my stomach full of weekend. Damn that feels good. I may not be able to say I feel like a million bucks (because I don't know what a million bucks feels like exactly), but if I told ya I felt like five bucks and a bottle of cheap gin, the meaning would be the same. I feel energized. I feel alive. I feel decadent. I wanna light stuff on fire and blow shit up and have sex while robbing liquor stores... logically, this poses technical difficulties that may interfere with successful completion of said felony, so we'll throw out the liquor store part... keep the explosives... throw in some kink and throw out the keys to the handcuffs. I smell trouble in a 750 ml bottle and it's calling my name. Turn up the amp. Bollocks the lot of corporate rot. I'm on parole for 48 hours of furloughed fornication. Granted, due to my cursed scruples, it'll probably not be physical... but sociopsychological fornication sounds like more fun that animal crackers in the original circus box. Fuck me wild like Chester before Cheetos sold out (bastards). Chew broken glass. Scream as loud as you can until your throat feels like bursting... stop, drink a pint of lemon juice... repeat. All my fucking rocketsauce. Fuck you.
That sounds way more interesting than taking pictures of toilets.
Just passing through since you passed through my site. Gotdamn, I wish you didn’t live all the way in Texas, I think that we would really get along. I lived in Sealy for a few months back in 98, so I got to go to Houston a little bit when I was there, nice place.
Whoa baby!!!
You’s a cute one, and a might fine riter. I linked ya in my blog, baby, and next time yore feelin’ lonely, you just come on by the trailer and we’ll give you the haircut of yore dreams. On the house, sugar.
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