I need fucked… Now and hard! But my Master is out of the country on business… What should I do?

Well, you could try being a mature human being who keeps herself productive and positive through brief bouts of loneliness and frustration, utilizing her astonishing power of self-control and uncanny ability to think with something other than her cunt. But I’m guessing that telling you to be a grown-ass woman would be as pointless as asking Willem Dafoe to not look creepy; adulting just isn’t in your wheelhouse.

Going the other direction, there’s no real reason you can’t put on something slutty, liberally douse yourself in bourbon until every aspiring date-rapist in the county can smell you, and then spend your evening leaning unsteadily against the dumpster outside a dive bar. Your master couldn’t really complain much; if he’s gonna leave an idiot tramp alone to solve her own sexually inept problems, he’s gotta expect to come home to a new STD now and then.

But if you’re anything like most of my girls, in the end, you’re too lazy and unmotivated to bother. We both know you’ll just end up in bed by yourself, rubbing your clit to posts like this, knowing that you’re neither half the woman nor half the whore your should be. Brava!

You’re so fucked up but your writing is so creative and genius that I don’t know how anybody could hate on you. P.S.. You should really go back to Mr. Blonde.

Thank you! I try not to take it too personally when people hate the blog.

My followers know I’m but a humble street magician, using a little psychic misdirection to turn shame into orgasms. But to a random person wandering up to the show and giving it a cursory glance, it looks more like some crazed asshole, juggling chainsaws with an erection. They’re entitled to their instinctive burst of outrage at the sight.

(With that said, I would totally watch that show. From a safe distance.)

Oh, and go watch season 2 of Deadwood. Put it together with my recent medical history and you’ll know why I feel more like Al these days.

No matter how desperate you are to seem deep, it doesnt change the fact that youre an abusive asshole whos fetishizing mentally ill women

I don’t think of girls as fetishes; they’re more like familiars.

(That’s a witchcraft joke. Because I’m deep.)

Also, in order to qualify as “abusive”, one would theoretically need to actually, y’know… abuse something. Outside of the wanton, brutal things I do to the poor English language, I’m afraid I’m far too lazy and/or indifferent to run around hurting things that aren’t enthusiastically asking to be hurt.

Except spiders. Fuck those guys.

DIY

There’s no better way for a man to express his true feelings than securely attaching you to whatever rusting garbage he could scrounge up from an abandoned lot, and then torturing your body with random crap he found in the back of his closet.

Always remember that dumpster-diving for bondage gear doesn’t mean he’s cheap; it means you are.