An assortment of ramblings; some thoughtful, some thoughtless
I’m trying to relocate my Tumblr sea legs, so you’re going to see lots of quippy garbage and grossly inappropriate flirting with pretty girls young enough to be my daughters, from now until TBD. If this displeases you, well, thou hast my leave to go to France, Laertes.
Also, if you’re one of said pretty girls and I write something that icks you out, let me know and I’ll nuke it. I’m trying to fix me, not fuck with you.
(I realize that many of you are emotional dunces, and don’t have the first clue how to talk coherently with any adult male, much less one who scares you a little. So I figured I’d start compiling a series of helpful tips that will make our interactions as painless as possible. For me.)
TIP : If you want to talk to me and you’re a cunt, just say so. Otherwise, I’m going to waste my time politely conversing with you like you’re a person or something, and hell, that benefits no one. I don’t want to inflict the more… presumptuous aspects of my personality on innocent strangers, so that means you need to tell me when you’re not.
Innocent, I mean. It’s kind of a given that you’re strange.
It’s important that a relationship be founded in mutual respect.
For example, I respect you enough as a human being to honestly tell you how disappointing you are as a woman. And in return, you respect me for actually thinking about you long enough to recognize your flaws.
It’s quite beautiful, really.
I just realized it’s been almost two years since I last made a girl cry.
That, ladies, is some straight-up bullshit.
As with most things, alcoholism looks more interesting in the movies. Now that I’ve seen it up close, turns out it’s all gangrene and amputated toes.
In retrospect, being a giant pussy who hates the taste of booze was perhaps a lucky break on my part.
I just wanna be your everything.
So you can be my nothing.
I often struggle to succinctly describe my personal cocktail of towering self-regard and bitter self-loathing. But I think I’ve come up with something:
My ego is the Death Star, adrift in a galaxy full of shifty-looking Skywalkers.
Had a dream last night you were spanking me with a hairbrush. I asked if this counts as cheating on my boyfriend and you said no. I said: “keep the jeans on, that way it doesn’t count as cheating”.
Silly boyfriends. They should worry less about me getting into their girlfriends’ pants, and worry more about me getting into their girlfriends’ heads.
My dick has never once taken a woman from another man. But those things I whisper in her ear when he’s not around, the way I make her feel like a scared little girl who just can’t help herself…? That shit will absolutely ruin her for him.
Girls are programmed to overlook, excuse, and forget bad dick. Bad thoughts, on the other hand? They hold on to those forever.
Which is my way of saying, I don’t think a little denim is going to preserve your virtue. Given that you’re writing me, I suspect you’re running a quart or two low as it is.
If you’re not hearing it, you’re not being it.
Okay Xkit, you and I are officially over. You have mangled a post for the last time. and now we are sworn enemies. Have at thee!
UPDATE: I’m talking Xkit for iPad, which I damned well know is abandonware, and have bitched about before, but have persisted in using because my finicky ass prefers a full-screen activity log to the official Tumblr app’s teeny little pop-up. Time to get over it, I guess.
