I guess I could swallow pills, call 911 and when they get here, ask them to contact
Make A Wish so they can get a hold of my girl(friend,) but that's pretty movie-like and would never happen. But wait . . . much like when Cartman faked being a retard to enter the Special Olympics and Knoxville did that gay movie, I could fake that I'm dying somehow to get
Make A Wish here. Yea . . I could do that.
All I'd really have to do is make a list of all the alcohol I drink, combine that with all the fast food I eat and whores I've fucked, then surely
Make A Wish would think my death is nearly imminent. I could throw in some suicidal tendencies, all the stress I have built within me because I'm not legally allowed to punch stupid people outside the state of Alabama . . . Yea . . . it's all coming together now. Add in smoking a carton of cigarettes a week and telling gang members to shut the fuck up because I'm playing the music I want to play, and yea . . . I think my tombstone almost etches itself into the minds of those philanthropists.
Live twice? Yea, right. I'm only here once; therefore I'll do whatever I wish.
Errbody know me by now. I'm such a bastard. I'll take a bitch with tonsillitis and make her suck me so hard that if I had any kidney stones, she would vacuum them up through my shaft and gobble them up like Pop Rocks and I really wouldn't care if she had a cough. Still, I'm not happy. Just been bumming lately. One could blame it on stress with work, family, or the fact that serial killers are out on the loose and haven't contacted me for a consult.
I mean, human skulls on E-bay are going for under $150, but lately I've been feeling that people could contact me for a huge discount. Kinda got that summer itch, ya know? I mean, I'm just ready to kill. I don't know what it is; I just feel this hollow feeling . . . almost like if I remember yesterday, I already know what tomorrow is going to turn out like. It's so redundant. It's not even a challenge to know what tomorrow will bring me because I might as well have sent myself a fax from yesterday to tell me what the weather is like in 6 hours from right now.
Boooooooring. It's depressing. It's like playing poker and getting the exact same hand every deal, except in my life, every time I awaken it might as well be a game of Uno. I actually know what the problem is . . . I know exactly what it is, but I know I shouldn't say.
It's a woman.
It's always because of some chick. What the fuck? We always get stuck on some woman. There's always that one who comes into our hearts and never exits like the rest of those whores.
Karla, baby . . . Come home. I would never play step-daddy to any other woman on the planet but you . . . You're different. Leave him and move to Wisconsin. I'm already convinced I would drink your bath water and ask you to not only slap me, but maybe . . . just maybe, put something up my bum.
Karla Homolka: the hottest serial killer on the fuckin' planet, but society doesn't like her.
See, but those are all things you needn't worry about because I'm here for you to play with in whatever fashion you deem appropriate. I'll do whatever it takes. Even if I don't have one, I'm sure I can peck my family tree and find a step-sister somewhere who hasn't graduated yet and we can make movies, if that's what you want. Whatever. I'll sacrifice her for you because for some reason I feel you're more dedicated than an al-Queda suicide bomber with stage 4 lung cancer.
Just call, baby. Please. I miss you terribly. I won't make you look like this even when you're talking tall shit.
Even if we scoop up a girlscout and it comes out where I'm innocent, I promise, I'll visit you and put money on your canteen. You can write me letters from prison and tell me how good your cellmate eats your pussy, and you know what, I would jerk-off to it and not get jealous. Unlike Paul, when I fuck you in the ass and you start crying, I'll at least slow down and reapply some Astroglide. I mean, the time you would be biting the pillow could only be measured in nanoseconds; real quick-like because I'm fuckin' snappy like that.
You've last been sighted in Ontario, but please, don't let the border patrol discourage you. Come to the USA, if for just a brief moment. I mean, I'll ignore your kid because it's basically a mishap on your part, but when the lights go out, my arms are all around you, baby, and my dick would even be hard while your kid sleeps on the couch. I'll put the same pillow you previously bit over your face so you don't awaken him as you moan and that single tear drips down your lips.
I mean, your at least 36 years of age, but I'm confident I'll find someplace tight to stick it since it gets a little loose during your middle age. All that anal sex: it never should have been called date-rape, anyway. It just should be called "overtime" to Paul's ambiguous petting; every freshman feline out there should suck it up after a couple days when they can walk normally again, anyway---you know this, baby, because you walk fine now. I mean, you were eventually, in life, going to get stuffed full of cock anyway; what's the big deal what year or what hole it happened in?
I yearn for your saliva, baby. Holy fuck, you're fine. I mean, with a shaved muff, I would dive Atlantis-like depths into your vagina and chew on your discharge if you had it . . . and suck a fart outta your asshole during the same breath.
