I tear a ligament rising through an orgasm I’m having to a braces clad girl sucking the dick of a dancing bear. My dad’s knee has blown out again, and it looks like he’s got elephantitis.
You don’t have to stand to cum, says the preceptor, your prostate will be just fine pulsating prone. Don’t lose sight of McBeth, who has reentered the scene through the playoffs. You can’t make Hayward stay. You can’t hold off death forever. Injuries are bound to happen. The Lord won’t let you be invincible. It’s not even invincible.
I’m speaking to the crowd here while emptying another Omeprazole bottle and shooting Flonase up both of my nostrils.
I got you some more snore strips, says Musette, not wanting to have to wear earplugs at night, not wanting me to keep the unborn baby awake.
Preparation is the boy scout way, and I still can’t get myself to seriously start hunting for a mother’s day present for her.
Don’t you want the baby to survive, asks McBeth.
We just bought her new Crocs, and they already don’t fit. We only bought them, like, two days ago. She’s stomping the trash at the foot of the passenger seat. Water bottles, empty boxes of fries, crushed soda cans.
We’re going to start nesting soon. A hormonal trigger is going to flip. I’ll have to invest in more paper bags. The recycling is sprawled out like our laundry. Once upon a time we had clean clothes. Nobody can tell they’re dirty if you don’t stink, but I can feel the grit in my armpits and in my crotch. I’m always itching at the mole that spontaneously sprouted on my penis, concerned that it might be a genital wart and that it might give me lung cancer.
I masturbate with poop in my butt to amplify the pleasure.
It builds up, rolling over itself, turning into meatballs, and then blasting into a bloodbath. I follow up with a hemroid wipe, which I swear has horseradish on it, and I’m craving prime rib again, just like that, probably how I got into this mess in the first place, spice is nice and all that jazz, but when it’s boiling at your butthole, you might think twice.
I’m trying to stay regular, maintain a certain sort of schedule. I could take fiber pills, but the only pill that I seem to be able to get down is Omeprazole.
Sometimes all I can think about is fucking the frozen sister’s Golden state Curry fanatics. Celestial marriages on the plane of death. The run for cancer correction taking place on my main strip, and I’m doing everything to keep from vaping in the car. Franny told me that she read a study saying that smoking is 70% genetic, and I read something that said you shouldn’t vape in your home or your car, but I’m in gridlock, baby. Everything from the freeway is being routed into the one lane Main, and there’s no escape because of the train.
I sit and think that I should die for my inadequacies. I’m a chaos in sonic heat. This is what I do, I say. I’m a writer, letting the poo build back up in my butt. I agree to all sex pre-examinations. Sexy fun with my kitten. Full play screenjobs. Even with the poop in my butt, I don’t need to stand. Everything always felt so much better when you were fucking my pussy, says the cutie.