Category: Stories & Captions

Women’s bodies have for millennia served as the medium for some of man’s greatest works. We have painstakingly molded dynasties within them, and written the fall of civilizations into their genes. They bear the scars of their mothers’ wounds like etched echoes, telling tales of woe older than words.

But you, whore? You’re barely worth a fucking Sharpie.

I suspect that you overestimate the relevance of this information.

But good to know.

It’s a visual metaphor, capturing in it’s elegant simplicity your life’s central question:

Where does the girl end and the trash begin?

It is autumn, and the floor of the forest is littered with fallen, decaying things.

I will take nothing but pictures, and leave nothing but ashes.

An animal is well trained when it can perform a trick and provide its own drumroll simultaneously.

I am always amazed by how thoroughly a culture can train its cunts to both dread and protect cock. The dick is everything that controls and diminishes them, their penultimate nightmare made rigid, greedy flesh; how many erections every year are forced down how many helpless throats, literally and figuratively? For the sake of manhood is woman thus circumscribed.

And yet, how seldom they indulge the obvious; a cunt will drown in the hate of a man —allow him to turn her body against her until she spouts her bile like some grotesque, fetid fountain, fit only to decorate a garden of weeds— before she’ll disarm him of the weapon he loves best. The world will grow dark around the edges and recede into it’s own shadows before she will make his strength his weakness.

If only the gods were so feared and served, surely this world would return unto Eden. But fair Eve, it seems, has grown accustomed to her squalor.