not to read please

Me go crazy-crazy. I am possibly whacked up on Coke and cinnamon gum. It’s the new …coke. Cocaine that is. Not carbon. Haha I make unfunny funny. Professor inflict, so I’d like to inflict back to the cummunity whilst I vegetate in the computer lab.

I have zeez moments yoo know, I am not sure how it managed not to come out more fully over these bery auspicious months, I vant to uhh how you say? I want to go coocoo yes, and I put on an accent and the accent it eez not my accent, I have none, les Canadiens me disent que je parles l’anglais exceptionellement. Anticonstitutionellement in fact. Ils voudraient savoir pouquoi je ne possedes pas d’un accent. Puck you and all you hockey-motherpuckers, je reponds. But I have dis fake, undeniably obnoxious accent, it is undefined cumulative, no wait, coomoolatif accent of mah exposure, I take on identity of others, I love it so, it make me laff-happy, I is even gangsta sometimes yo, left it, mad scenes going left right in my head, it’s the deelyo and completely okely dokely I tell you, old sport. Haloo, I speaka good English, I learn it from eh boook. I slave-drive my commas and make them do work they should not be doing on their minimum wage, I am perfectly aware. Comma chameleon karma will come to bite me in the ass. Stick a dash in my semicolon. I comma, they come, we cum, ah but the combers, they are the best. Here I comb. I’m combing, I’m combing, yes, uh, faster, harder. So smoos and untangled, yesyesyes. I’d like to secrete a secret, little known fact, ‘pro’-vitamins in your kondeesyoner are not professional vitamins at all. In fact, they vill not feed your hair, they feed you lies. Fuckin amateurs. No woman, no cry, its still very smoossifyng and will make you smoochable. Because rumor has it that frizzy-haired women don’t get kissy-kisses. Don’t look at me, I’m just reporting werd on the street, dawg, live, 24 hrs a day. I CaN eVeN talk like internet-brat: wat up? lol brb ttyl ^_% ow shampoo in my right eye, left, right. (leftrightleft) I poke no fun, I am it all, I do it all, I’d do you all if you gave me the right look with the corner of your left eye. Ya know what I mean bro? How’dya get tham gal?

How in the bloody hell- ah mean how- ah mean how in bloody carnations- am I going to recount my sex life here on end? My wish to is fading. I take huge pleasure out of small things in life. What will I do now that I’ve got to the huge things? Make em small and safe inside me? It is not even that, I’m just out of powerful phrases. We kicked it up a notch and I hate Emeril. I will not say bang. If I put on accent and make silly, maybe then you understand? If I tell you, le T, when he putta his melting popsicle in my poutine...cheesy curd reference not so smart perhaps. I apologise for imagery, oui, non, pas oui- nasal wanh? He tella me later I comb so different when he fucka me compared to when we uh talk- and I know this – we throb throb throb like my achy-breaky heart, I just don’t think you’d understand. Or even compared to when he only put his fingers on me. But he put his buzzer on me, not his buzzard, not his buzz-cut, he has neither, his whir-whir, you know, his *snap snap snap fingers* his vibrator ah that is ze word. His one has two heads, two headed-monster, one for me, one for him, but I get lucky, two for me, none for him, and la piece de resistance, le cock for me too. Poor asshole. Speaking of which, where do you think the second bzzzizzer went? In mine truly. I went bzzzerk. You know where the first one went, on my clittola, daaaamn straight. Made me hold it there, right until I wanted to cum. Then he brushed my hands off abruptly. But I want to comb I said, with my eyes of course, my mouth was busy moaning. Enough with the combing joke of a non-joke? Never, I refuse, no one asked you to read. Click that next blog button. I have other buttons to press. Ah but the second little metalhead, it feel like giant when he start to move it down into skin between, and then I realise where he going, and he push and oh feel so good and mghfhsfd. I will talk of this more seriously later, repeat after me: repetition, repetition, repetition. You were screaming, he tell me later. Every time he tell me ready, set, GO, I went, I mean I came. He no have to tell me, I know. You take it deep for such slight girl, he say. Actually he call me small and then opt for average-sized. I take out tape-measure next time. Not very fair to ask men about their penis dimensions, if we do not give our cunt dimensions, don't you think? I know one is a bit harder to measure than the other, but is that the guy's fault? I'ma design a cunt-measurer some day, can be my scientific contribution to society. It will turn the world topsy-turvy. We can also do a test-of-grip, a measurement of Newtonic elastic force in our walls. And if we gonna measure anything on a guy, we should do tests of turgidity. Not the amount of water displaced when the male component enters a bathtub, but the speed at which the water leaves. Ay? Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Anyhoo, size is subjectif, even though so many are possesif about it. Personally I prefer you meet me in the place with no dimensions first. But I do admit, with him, a little cervix-pushing, not too much, not for too long, just the way he did it, do feel good, feel like me Jane, can make me feel like my eyes gonna do a boing out of my head. And then his Brownian motion much-vibing-head numero uno entered -stage left- back into my hand onto my miniature potent peenass hah ok even I don’t think that’s funny, not that there’s anything wrong with that, I had a dream I made out with a hermaphrodite, it was sublime, I was in tears, crying, so beautiful, so bootiful, sob, you canna ken it, but anyways, numero uno bullet touch base with my home-base, and I stroke it over his cock too as it enters me, still stuffed up my ass with jumping jiving numero dos, you understand. There we go, he murmurs, theeere we go. I like his there we gos. We do go there, it is such accurate sentimentation. (Cept his face stareth down with such casual delibrate intent throughout, and I doth be a tad scared, a ton wet and perchance a midge queasy?) And then in the end, after my many ends and beginnings, he make pool of come on my stomach hurt. Someone somewhere on the blog-o-ellipsical-sphere called it his pancake batter once, I forget where, I think he was serious, and I laughed till my Coke and cinnamon gum came out of my nose. I’m crude and rude today, oh dear. I apologize to the pancake batter-up-er. Deary deary me.

The above is why recreational drugs and me have chosen not to ever approach each other. Non-rec too if I can avoid it. Some would say I am perhaps better off not avoiding.

Screw this, it was the best of screws, and no other kind, but read the post below this instead yo, it’s got my soul in it and shit. This one does too, showtime half-time entertainment soul, but other one's got da blues too. Sing it.