GIRLS ARE GHEY, and any guy who likes girls is obviously pussy-whipped and also, quite probably ,a simpering effeminate queen. You can't argue with statistics. You can't win a debate against the kind of turgid throbbing facts that science can provide. Ninety seven percent of queers have at least talked to a woman on one or more occasions, now I don't know about you but I'm drawing the only obvious conclusion, and, quite frankly, the evidence available looks pretty goddamn convincing:

it rubs the lotion on it's skin

or else it gets the hose again

I dun really know. It's not you, it's me. You need your space, and I'd quite like to fall in love. Incompatible objectives. I'm an idiot, a real class act—so just leave me to die by natural causes, or their nearest causal medical equivalents, A friend of mine tells me that people like to egg-me-on when I'm drinking, like most races people would much rather see a car crash than any run-of-the-mill first place photo op.

I feel like saying; that I'm sick of failing and I want to quit the race entirely and if you want a car crash just keep on watchin cos I truly to aim to please and provide the goods requested.

Leave me the fuck alone, I just wanna calcify like some old stalegmite drippin on a skeleton in the temple of solomon,some peace and motherfucking quiet.

It has really been bothering me. And I really have been thinking a lot about it recently. Unfortunately, I am forced to say, a lot of these uppity feminist bitches come up with is actually, for the most part, pretty much correct. You can fluff around a bit on a periphery a bit. This and that, etcetera, you know. I really did not want this. I did not. Definitely, definitively, absolutely did not want this to happen. But the force! of the argument! there's only so many times you can withstand the persuasive flash! bang! apparent explosion of the truth.

It's made me think. I've been tossing up. Whether I want to be a decent person or not. To be honest, I'm leaning towards, the answer is NO. I mean, you know, everyone likes to think they are decent person generally: But when you actually, exactly, demand to see the list of demands that are put upon you, well! how the hell! you've seen the scroll! what the fuck am I supposedou co to do with this!

I can quite capably justify myself, to myself, at any time you like to ask, but please. sweet jesus, god, don't ask me to justify myself to everyone.

I guess you could call me a nihilist, in so much as these problems scare me as I cower before them, but I kinsda feel like there are no ultimate solutions to these problems, that everything is vanity, all is vanity; vanity, vanity.

But still, bro, I got this cup, that I might fill with empathy; or else disperse to the ground, whatever I felt like.

This cup is not made of clay,, we shape it, we apply our force, direct from of our hands.

Friends! bros, associates... acquaintances, and so forth. I know what you think. I used to think the same thing also. It bothered me for a long time. But I can't deal anymore. And if it's the easy way out, well, fuck it. Cos after ten, twelve, whatever years of this shit I'm really getting sick of feeling unwell. Every day bro, every day of this shit hammering on my head, malicious malformed gnomes of the silver hammer despair beating, beating day at night. I can't cope! By myself! And I no longer care! whether it actually solves anything or not, or whether prozac is just some feel good drug that makes me feel better, because I think I've reached my purchase limit. I reckon this is near the end of train ride. I can longer keep carrying on, carrying on this way I have been previously. All my well worn strings are getting frayed and warned, forgotten anchor ropes forgetting rubbed worn thin.

Shit for me has gone all algebraic. Want to keep making the effort, or x. Don't bother calling cops just yet, this cauldron been bubbling since well before personal.

Let us not forget, despite all this emo expression that: a) I could probably (at any time) beat you into a vague & bloody pulp & b) most definitely, under certain, admittedly relaxed rules, drink you under the table