I just wanna be your everything.
So you can be my nothing.
I just wanna be your everything.
So you can be my nothing.
I am slightly embarrassed by my reading list; there’s not a ton of literary value in the books I’ve consumed throughout my life.
Just to give you an idea of how bad it can get, the lowlights include all ten of Hubbard’s Mission Earth books, and as a teenager, swear to God, I paid to read slightly reworded versions of the same fucking David Eddings book ten fucking times. In hardback.
Mostly, though, I lean toward middle-brow, funny, British fantasists like Gaiman, Pratchett, and Douglas Adams. The only thing I’m reading at the moment is Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, partly because of a general interest in philosophy and religious history, but mainly because I have a completely unreasonable love for the dumbed down 1986 Sean Connery/Christian Slater film adaptation.
Self-awareness and a goal. You’re got it all, baby.
And vividly descriptive.
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.
You’re still alive?
Relationship goals.
And yes, Phillip makes the list twice because both he and his women are awesome.
I’d dump you in the Everglades with a few barrels of toxic chemicals, just to see if you turn into Swamp Thing. Or a zombie. Or simply a contrite, smelly little tramp who is very, very sorry she wasted my time asking inane questions.
Y’know, whatever.
Interesting question. The prima facie answer is, simply enough, “duh.” But I think the truth is closer to “I enjoy manipulating women emotionally, and reaping the sexual rewards that naturally follow.”
In other news, men use words to get into girls’ pants. It’s shocking, I know.
My head is an over sexualised horror movie.
Nonsense.
You can’t over-sexualize a horror movie.