My underwear doesn’t smell bad enough not to wear again. I did not cum in it. I only sweat some. Some people like the smell of aged groin.
I put on the shirt I was wearing under another shirt yesterday. It’s the Jagermeister shirt. They don’t care what I wear at my work so long as it is not open toed shoes.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I switch out the shirt for a less controversial one. I’m not part of the union yet. I’ve still got to watch my P’s and Q’s.
There is some chest hair on my chest of all places. There are whiskers on my face. I’m grizzled proper. Five o’clock is rolling into another night.
Why have I not shaved yet then, I wonder. What am I trying to prove? Is my purpose in life little more than to toss everyone around me into a woodchipper? Raskolnicornupia. Can it be that I, little old Libels, is the bibles hereby announced as the fleeting barbarous butcher of Fleet Street? Phantom grinding organ chords in the attic.
Visit me in the hallway, the shadows of my feet revealing themselves waiting. They are beneath your bathroom door. Can you hear, with slightly crossed eyes, the heavy breathing smile and voyeuristic waiting — that which you have brought upon yourself through your summoning sin?