It’s your head; I just play with it.
Hm. How about no to both?
It’s handy, knowing you don’t have to hurt her to make her lose control.
Would you, have you, will you ever cut a girl?
Oh, hell yeah!
I mean, if she stays out past curfew, that bitch is totally off the team.
Wanna fuck u real hard
Like, petrified wood hard? Obsidian? Diamond?
An alloy of adamantium, vibranium, and mithril, inscribed and enchanted with the full text of my credit card terms & conditions. That hard.
You write like a sociopath.
I do what I can. It’s not easy, and thus I go through dry spells. Being intricately, thoughtfully awful is actually quite difficult… I have a weird pity/respect for those who can do it full-time, because I find it curiously exhausting.
But I always endeavor to remember that I’m lucky to be the sort of person who can access that headspace and then leave it when I’m done… others aren’t so fortunate.
Oh, and thanks for the pep-talk!
Tell me, can you feel my abiding appreciation of your inalienable personhood throb each time it’s thrust in your mouth? Or is it all just a blurry, violent onslaught of respect from where you’re at?
Go through your collection of photos, and count how many times you’ve been photographed pointlessly flipping off the camera.
Multiply that number by ten, and you will have the approximate number of times I’d like to slap you for being such a clichéd piece of trash.
Making them cry is simply foreplay. It’s seeing them crawl back for more that feels good.
Better than good, really. It feels like being Jesus, or at least L. Ron Hubbard.