Domesticate Yourself

Tamed wolf cubs, felines, shrews, fucking schmucks, the devil's eggs; we'll all be eating them all someday.  Helmet to helmet crrrrrunch, black hole brains rage in the post-penalty zone, misery parade, pleasure delay, so how did I get fucked ten ways five times to yesterday's tomorrow's 4 AM?  Well?  Well, well, just like you remember, crushing with seismic novelty, low testosterone commercials competing ironically with my oh, daddy!  Now, 15 for taunting so get open and pray, pray to get open, opened is praying.

Shattered screen scream dreams drain brains, and more.  Play your cards, as they come, as they are, as it were, as I want you to be, the most popular nirvana is not the best, Nevermind.  Everything makes sense when you're drunk but I'm sober always, almost, so what does that speak to you, spaking only truth, as I understand it to be, spankings for all!  Stolichnaya is the world's MOST original (?) vodka.  And OJ is the least original juice.

The crust quakes, parts get bigger, some parts slip into cracks, liquefaction erosruption.  It is mother fucking Mother Nature's big fucking O.

I kiss your weak and wobbly parts.  Rest up.  You'll need it.  

Is Cranberry Jelly a Kind of Novelty Lube?

 

Dollar Days, and confused, as to why I regulated my reflex to immediately jerk the wheel and stay on the service road and point the old beast back north.  Ride a pony, poke a lizard, kiss a camel, two dollars poorer.  Terry's Village is potemkin and it is that special time of year, for fine, fine products that we will wash and wear, once or out, rinse and repeat again, again.  I wish the pilgrims had eaten prime rib.

Let me begin again, and this time using proper transitions.

Firstly, will we have sex before Thanksgiving or are you going to have to act like a little bitch?  Nigga, please (me in the next seven hours and my answer is yes.)  (I will) Fuck you and your false dilemma; but it ain't no Morton's Fork, since I am definitely down to do one and and you are definitely going to do the other.

Further, did the Monday night outrageous wild cover-stifled fuck leave no imprint?  Remember?  The one where your head hung off the bed 'cause you got pushed that way when I rode you that way?  And the towel was only doubled singly so I slept in a wet spot the size of my ass?  Spoiler alert: it ended with your semen, etc. up my ass, etc.  Which brings me to my next point:

You are spoilt, said the way my people used to say it, with much emphasis on the non-existent t. I'm not saying I'm not, too, and you don't get rotten the way fruit does; you just go your own way, like a moth to a microwave.  Do you think it is possible that my excessive jaw-setting over asshole meanness could prove to be that final, fatal(istic) blow that takes away my dearness forever?  I don't think so 'cause surely it would've happened by now.

In summary, yes, my darling Criminal, I'll fuck you before Thanksgiving and I'll fuck you on Thanksgiving, too, 'cause a turkey gave me a (date night) promise ring, which is, coincidentally, Thanksgiving's most redeeming quality, worth every drop of petrol, every forced smile, every excruciating second of the uncomfortable familiar weirdness of families.  I intend to get you hard on the drive home so we can invent some new sex as soon as we get there and can we pretty please call it Cornbread Stuffing?

In conclusion, I ache for your throb, too.  And I love you, ripe and rotten.