myrtle

Fuck
Shit
Cunt
Girl
Rag.
Sometimes you got to let it flow out like water. Coming out of my mouth like the gates of hell opening and the demons all coming out.
And, of course, I could never be clean again.
Other than on the grass with something like "Maybe I'm not real"
Or like in the backseat with something like "This isn't real"
Or something like "I'll rape you until your real."
Real?
What?
Explain to me what that means and maybe I'll tape it and tattoo it on the insides of my thighs so that the next time some little cock sucking man beast wants to make his way down there he'll know for sure that: YES, I"M FUCKING REAL.
Wait a second.
I've got a girlfriend. Mmmm, honey honey.
Oh shit, I almost forgot, that (drumroll), they were always more fucked than I was (even though I let it look the other way around) because I'm only gonna fuck dem broken boys cause those boys remeber the porcelain skin, and they know that those were THIER HANDS round my uhh...neck?
Alright then.
That should be it, but there's always more.
I want to get away sooonnnn. Actually, more appropriately, I've got to.
For real
I am for real.
Really.
For Real.
REAL.
It's about to drown me out. So much for that vodka, mmm, maybe I'll start a hobby.
Well, you know that it doesn't make sense. But who does these days?
Transcendentalists maybe, but probably not.
They're made out of the same star shit that I am, I'm sure that one day their bellys will be all full up with the charcole too.
(Yeah, you know, even Angelina Jolie)
Alright, enough for now, the next posted information will be strapping hawt pictures of girls, doing dirty little things that make men and women alike grow warmth tween thier little folded up thighs
HA! You thought that I didn't see

Happiness (maybe)