(no subject)
Robert Roberts had a serious problem: his hands. Alone at night, motivated only by a self-operating night-lamp, he would type away angrily, hoping to fuel some passion within his writing. However, as he would do so, he would bring undesired attention to his hands. Stubby, rough, and decorated with fingernails missing pieces, his hands were disgusting. Yet, he would persistently type away, hoping the words which would appear on the screen would somehow attract a desirable change of climate within his future. A desirable future for Robert Roberts was a modest one: a decent looking woman who would give him decent blowjobs, make him decent meals, and have decent tits. Naturally, he wanted success in terms of his writing career. However, Robert, a present construction worker and once-writer of vaccuum manuals, could only write pieces which would painfully resemble manuals. Fortunately, he was living in a city whose citizens did not read. Unfortunately, he was living in a city whose women were extremely superficial, and refused to fuck him because of his serious problem, which, if you recall, had to do with his disgusting hands.