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He thinks: I am going to write some selfabsorbed garbage. Specific: Me and My Pain.


Also, he is going to write about the time your punkass boy got punked in a campus bar for wearing a Red Sox cap and actually OFFERED to take the motherfucker off.


But then he thinks about the actual asdfing (if you plz). He is all fuck it. 


[ I want to do an interjection thingy here and mention that I correctly employed a colon at the top of this drivel. The second colon is debatable. I mean. I typed "Specific" when the sentence clearly called for "Specifically." And I don't really think that "Specifically" has the stones to stand by itself. Do you?]


Ok. Back to business. Backsie wacksies. 


My old man said this to me today:


I saw some pictures that make you look like the Michelin man. 


Also,


You need to stop working out. You are getting too big on top. 


Now I have a bad body image. But not overall. So like you know. Not so bad. 


Irregardless. I think I want of you to hold me. 


And fuck me like we are on a cruise ship, sweet thing. And in a nice cabin. Not one of those tinycrappy closets the cruise lines pass off as economy rooms. 


I'll put the champagne bottle in your hoohah if you desire. 


Text it. 


Last thing. I have been translating English into English lately. Apparently, one can do that for a living. Pretty sweet gig. No one respects me as an artist tho. 


Even when I stick my hardhotcock in them. 


Stay bless. 


You are more than you think.