I’m gonna form a band called the Twitchin’ Perverts and write songs about glory holes in motorway stop toilets and getting greedy at gay orgies. Now go ahead and click this link 😏

https://youtu.be/qs0zDi4ztZ4

“I wasn’t running away.” With a touch of finality Henri mustered words he bore as true. “I wasn’t running away from you.”

Frankie’s heart ached for some sort of compensation, he knew this to be a foolishness but couldn’t let go of the notion. An apology is one thing, but something in a way of compensation is important to a man...
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https://youtu.be/vMTEtDBHGY4

I adore this song. Every time I listen to it Tim’s voices just carries me away on a journey through my imagination.

I smell sounds and see temperature. I’m an abnormal person. I greet people by licking their eyes. I use my big Italian nose during intimacy with people who are weird like me. I raised my father well. I only go to restaurants when I need to poop. Hang out with me because when you do, I assure you that you willn’t have a...
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I’m gonna start a trend.

Ever heard of a mosh pit? Of course you have! Well how about a posh pit? It’s just like a mosh pit except instead of destroying the people near you, you stand completely still with some fine wine and say stuff like “phrase indeed!” And “capital riff old chum!”

Who thinks I can get this started? 🧐

dariianity:
Hahah

I accidentally exposed myself to the mailman this morning. He was delivering my incense. It was a memorable morning on both accounts.

I’ve been thinking about applying the writing techniques I’ve learned to self expression. I’ve read about how writing your feelings down is therapeutic and prepares you for stressful situations.

I find it problematic. Not because I don’t feel anything or because I feel too much, but because I have learned other ways of expressing myself.

Something I’ve found really therapeutic...
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‘You have a reputation that precedes you. Tell me, is it true, are you a survivor?’ She asked. ‘If not—I mean; if I’m not a survivor then this must be my afterlife and you must be my guardian angel.’

She laughed so carefree, like an angel does, warmingly touching my hand. It was an unexpected reaction, though I couldn’t offer a guess...
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There is a certain measure

Which I cannot record—

Or place into volume.

Truthfully, an isometric tension

Which broods somewhere inside.

I fear it may be a consequence

Of wrath’s unborn. A superstitious

Intrigue; such as an assassin

Who murdered his beloved God,

And inherited an Earth unready

For the gait of his very pride.

I gaze at him in wonder

And learn of...
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