Unamused.
Today I chalk up to epic fucking fail.
Also I have that race oriented writing entry to post at some point this week but not day.
I had a first, I wrote my very first letter to the police chief about some of the shitty behavior of county cops in my neighborhood. The baby Rollins from the Black Flag days is quite appropriate. As would be the song Police Story.
However.
I just ran across a writing exercise I did from a prompt at that old Bizarro board. In other writing news I am 80% sure I will go ahead and do a lulu erotica chapbook. Some of my homeless favorites. Pansexual bite that ass smut. News as it happens.
If dolls being sentient and stabby creeps you out (at least one of you I know for sure) do not read this.
Hopefully tomorrow I can get some more brain spew (AKA poetry) done so I can get back down to business.
I’ve been staring at some line in her journal for six goddamn hours. Six hours looking at the smeared blue letters that I can hardly read. Six hours lying on my face in the book, nothing better to do than sit and think about just how much I hate this girl. I hate that bitch, I really do. If I could wrap my hands around her throat or maybe get one of her eyes out with a foot I would. How can you love someone who just throws you around and has the audacity to name you goddamn Miss Molly Moppetface?
Miss Mother-fucking Molly Moppetface.
Say that to yourself and understand why I hate her.
You think your life sucks? Well screw you buddy. Have you ever had your face smeared with red lipstick then had your head dunked into a sink full of Prell? Or made to dry hump a teddy bear that stinks like ass? Has someone ever made you wear itchy flammable pink jammies? Or how about shaved your head into a really bad Mohawk and colored it with green markers?
Yeah I didn’t think so.
So that’s where I am now. My Mohawk is gone though and my pate is clean. She finally washed that red lipstick off of my face and replaced it with some faggy Goth black eyeliner via a sharpie and an unsteady hand. Christ it’s like living in Kinderwhoreland without any kind of vacation.
The worst, yes the worst of it is she makes me watch her masturbate. I hate it. She sits me up against a pillow between her spread way too open legs, and sits there rubbing all over herself. That part isn’t so bad, I’ve got an eye full of badly shaven pussy but it’s not that bad. I mean who doesn’t love pussy right? The worst part is when she starts talking.
I guess it’s to rev up or whatever but Jesus Crispy Fried it’s bad.
‘Ohhhhhhhhhhh Miss Molly see what a nasty slut I am. Look how wet and red my cunny is.’
First of all who the fuck says cunny anymore? Really? Second of all why would I care if she’s a nasty slut or not? And she never shuts up once she starts going. If she’s really excited she’ll roll over and wave her pasty ass at me.
‘Oh I should be spanked Miss Molly. I wish you could spank me I’m such a naughty dirty little slut.’
If I ever wanted to have a lesbian experience it would be with fucking Barbie and not this stupid girl.
Then she flips back over and holds one leg up at the knee while she jams her fingers up her cunt with the other. Does nobody realize what an unflattering position that is for most women? Not to mention un-fucking-comfortable? Can an actual flesh and blood woman really come while trying to hold a leg up, not breath and ramming her fingers into the great unknown? If they can that’s some kind of special talent.
When she starts to come finally she starts making this puppy getting raped by a moose squealing noise. Eeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhh. Something like that. And all this time I can’t look away, I can’t close my eyes because she always makes sure I’m sitting bolt-fucking upright. And since I’ve got the front row seats I can hear her fingers squish in and out of her stupid gaping hole. I could puke my stuffing.
And I’m still face down in this journal thing.
"The corpses wore their cerements like models on a catwalk conveyor belt." In my face still. I keep thinking about it and I think she lifted that from some stupid Goth ‘oh my asshole is bleeding and I’m pining for you’ type of song.
Christ here she comes. Finally she picks me up off of this stupid journal. Oh no, no, no she’s got a dress in her hands.
‘Oh Miss Molly now we can match.’
Dear God, if you exist please smite this stupid asshole right now. I promise the next little girl I’m given to I’ll love. I won’t mind if she puts me in gingham and frilly bows, she can call me Bambi, but please. Please do not make me be dressed like this crazy bitch.
God is fucking dead, I hope you got the memo.
She drops me on the bed and goes off to do whatever. Tulle makes my ass itch, and I hate frilly aprons and this stupid dress. That’s it, I’m going to kill her. For some reason I keep hearing that guy from the infomercials screaming, YOU CAN DO EEEET! I’m Miss Molly Moppetface; if I want to I can stab a bitch. I’ll wait until she’s asleep and stab her in the ear with a pen. No wait, even better I’ll wake her up and bash her brains in with her own stupid journal. Then blessed silence, can you imagine it?
No more watching her masturbate, no more having to listen to her have phone sex with geeks she meets off of the internet, no more ugly fucking dresses, no more of her. Maybe someone will finally just throw me away so I can be incinerated and die in peace.
It’s hours later and she’s asleep. I had the pussy show and now it’s time for action.
I’m ready, really. I’ve got a plan. See she’ll roll over in a minute and let me go, then I’ll reach for that stupid pen she has with the feather on it. Oh goddamn it if I had a pussy it would be dripping and gaping wide. Ok there she goes, yeah. It’s time. I feel like a fucking ninja. Get ready to die bitch. I hope you can jerk off in hell.
Also I have that race oriented writing entry to post at some point this week but not day.
I had a first, I wrote my very first letter to the police chief about some of the shitty behavior of county cops in my neighborhood. The baby Rollins from the Black Flag days is quite appropriate. As would be the song Police Story.
However.
I just ran across a writing exercise I did from a prompt at that old Bizarro board. In other writing news I am 80% sure I will go ahead and do a lulu erotica chapbook. Some of my homeless favorites. Pansexual bite that ass smut. News as it happens.
If dolls being sentient and stabby creeps you out (at least one of you I know for sure) do not read this.
Hopefully tomorrow I can get some more brain spew (AKA poetry) done so I can get back down to business.
I’ve been staring at some line in her journal for six goddamn hours. Six hours looking at the smeared blue letters that I can hardly read. Six hours lying on my face in the book, nothing better to do than sit and think about just how much I hate this girl. I hate that bitch, I really do. If I could wrap my hands around her throat or maybe get one of her eyes out with a foot I would. How can you love someone who just throws you around and has the audacity to name you goddamn Miss Molly Moppetface?
Miss Mother-fucking Molly Moppetface.
Say that to yourself and understand why I hate her.
You think your life sucks? Well screw you buddy. Have you ever had your face smeared with red lipstick then had your head dunked into a sink full of Prell? Or made to dry hump a teddy bear that stinks like ass? Has someone ever made you wear itchy flammable pink jammies? Or how about shaved your head into a really bad Mohawk and colored it with green markers?
Yeah I didn’t think so.
So that’s where I am now. My Mohawk is gone though and my pate is clean. She finally washed that red lipstick off of my face and replaced it with some faggy Goth black eyeliner via a sharpie and an unsteady hand. Christ it’s like living in Kinderwhoreland without any kind of vacation.
The worst, yes the worst of it is she makes me watch her masturbate. I hate it. She sits me up against a pillow between her spread way too open legs, and sits there rubbing all over herself. That part isn’t so bad, I’ve got an eye full of badly shaven pussy but it’s not that bad. I mean who doesn’t love pussy right? The worst part is when she starts talking.
I guess it’s to rev up or whatever but Jesus Crispy Fried it’s bad.
‘Ohhhhhhhhhhh Miss Molly see what a nasty slut I am. Look how wet and red my cunny is.’
First of all who the fuck says cunny anymore? Really? Second of all why would I care if she’s a nasty slut or not? And she never shuts up once she starts going. If she’s really excited she’ll roll over and wave her pasty ass at me.
‘Oh I should be spanked Miss Molly. I wish you could spank me I’m such a naughty dirty little slut.’
If I ever wanted to have a lesbian experience it would be with fucking Barbie and not this stupid girl.
Then she flips back over and holds one leg up at the knee while she jams her fingers up her cunt with the other. Does nobody realize what an unflattering position that is for most women? Not to mention un-fucking-comfortable? Can an actual flesh and blood woman really come while trying to hold a leg up, not breath and ramming her fingers into the great unknown? If they can that’s some kind of special talent.
When she starts to come finally she starts making this puppy getting raped by a moose squealing noise. Eeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhh. Something like that. And all this time I can’t look away, I can’t close my eyes because she always makes sure I’m sitting bolt-fucking upright. And since I’ve got the front row seats I can hear her fingers squish in and out of her stupid gaping hole. I could puke my stuffing.
And I’m still face down in this journal thing.
"The corpses wore their cerements like models on a catwalk conveyor belt." In my face still. I keep thinking about it and I think she lifted that from some stupid Goth ‘oh my asshole is bleeding and I’m pining for you’ type of song.
Christ here she comes. Finally she picks me up off of this stupid journal. Oh no, no, no she’s got a dress in her hands.
‘Oh Miss Molly now we can match.’
Dear God, if you exist please smite this stupid asshole right now. I promise the next little girl I’m given to I’ll love. I won’t mind if she puts me in gingham and frilly bows, she can call me Bambi, but please. Please do not make me be dressed like this crazy bitch.
God is fucking dead, I hope you got the memo.
She drops me on the bed and goes off to do whatever. Tulle makes my ass itch, and I hate frilly aprons and this stupid dress. That’s it, I’m going to kill her. For some reason I keep hearing that guy from the infomercials screaming, YOU CAN DO EEEET! I’m Miss Molly Moppetface; if I want to I can stab a bitch. I’ll wait until she’s asleep and stab her in the ear with a pen. No wait, even better I’ll wake her up and bash her brains in with her own stupid journal. Then blessed silence, can you imagine it?
No more watching her masturbate, no more having to listen to her have phone sex with geeks she meets off of the internet, no more ugly fucking dresses, no more of her. Maybe someone will finally just throw me away so I can be incinerated and die in peace.
It’s hours later and she’s asleep. I had the pussy show and now it’s time for action.
I’m ready, really. I’ve got a plan. See she’ll roll over in a minute and let me go, then I’ll reach for that stupid pen she has with the feather on it. Oh goddamn it if I had a pussy it would be dripping and gaping wide. Ok there she goes, yeah. It’s time. I feel like a fucking ninja. Get ready to die bitch. I hope you can jerk off in hell.