(no subject)
Subsequent to seventeen hectic weeks of watching Phil Donahue reruns and fisting myself up the ass--not simultaneously--Marsden approached me with a pact. I could fuck him in the mouth if I revisited the land of virtual diaries. My dick signed the contract illegibly and here I stay. Perversion over persuasion always seals the deal and the thrill of habitually smudging my housekeeper with a dirty Sanchez was starting to lose its buzz. After much consideration and deliberation as to whether or not I should purchase drugs that make your jizz taste like mangos, I have come to the wretched conclusion that irritating you hags would be wasted time better spent. When I signed on and noted the essentials, I was surprised to find that most of you still have me added; this shock coming close to but not touching the revelation I experienced once you befriended me originally. Actually...nah I wasn't. Deem yourself graced. But whether this inability to unsaddle my journal, which hasn’t had a pulse in over three months with the prominent exception of my devotees begging for an encore, is due to healthy obsession or laziness I'm still not positive. Yet I'm convinced after I click this button the page you are viewing directly will shift from neutral to overdrive with no applause necessary. I'm here to be reviled and publicly loathed because during the conclusion of an exceedingly strenuous day I require nothing less than two or three high-quality giggles. You might think you have motive to belittle my behavior/grounds for living, but take note fools! Forget what you have ignored and permit my ego to charitably review the particulars free of charge. While you were assassinating the launch of ’06 bitching about the slushy snow plaguing the walkway to valet parking, how it ruined your newly worn ugg boots and how the moisture tarnished the supple genuine leather value of your hobo bags, how coral nail polish-while striking on its own-can by no means perfectly counterpart with other shades of coral you might come across on thee cutest scoop Tees or sparkle tanks, and how Red Oyster would rather watch her yellow father die instead of fucking a negro hobbit, I was filming a movie with such eye candy as Benjamin Bratt and Ryan Gosling. Moreover while these two rarely unclenched long enough for me to make a decent crack at anal probing, I established that spending several frigid occasions in the Big Apple dressed head-to-toe as Che Guevera will move sexual advances to the inaccessible back burner. As I conclude this sour tangent, I’ll depart with one final statement that is going to make your pussy water so heavily your gynecologist will recommend a faucet attachment. For those of you who are about to deride me in communities that base themselves on the dehumanization of such individuals who swim adjacent to the stream of universal consensus, keep this in mind: you came first and I was on top. In adulterated Disney fashion, the King has returned.