I just want a cute girl that I can cook for and take naps with and maybe touch her butt. Is that too much to ask?
We aren’t really friends unless one of the following has happened;
You’ve seen me drunk
You’ve seen my dick
I’ve seen your ass
I’ve stolen something unexpected with you present.
Hopefully on the day of my people I’ll get banned from Instagram!
// Mortality//
“Mortality” replied Oliver, “I want some more”. A brief on eternal slumber.
Where does one commence when talking about death? Undoubtedly should they perhaps dive head first into the heart of the issue, fear of the unknown, or elude to it with subtle metaphors and a silver tongue? Math states that the quickest way between two points is a straight line, thus head first would seem logical. However math fails to take into account the human condition, we of a certain disposition never like to admit to our faults. This creates quite a conundrum and almost creates a perfect infinity loop of excuses to never engage in the spirited colloquy. That however is not why we are here today. This is not a piece on the fears of man and how to write about death. “Instead this is a piece on death itself”, he growled incoherently. As a whole, the marvelous, the bad, the ugly, the real gritty. An hour behind the fleeting breath, what lay beyond?
I just want a nice piece of cake.
After sex I will make you a sandwich. The kind of sandwich will reflect your performance in bed.
I fear I’ll never shut it off. Always looking for a deeper layer.
I’m bankin pretty hard on Catholics being wrong cause man, I am so gonna burn in hell.
