|Blogs > slanteye31415926 > Piss and Vinegar|
I can't believe that there's actually something I can do in this place that doesn't require me to upgrade to gold-plated-diamond-studded-latinum-bar status.
The telemarketers are busy today. I have so far subject four of them to the porn on my computer, without so much as a cursory "Hello."
It's been so long since I've had sex that I'm worried that I might blow a hole in the next poor woman I sucker into undressing for me.
On some level, I'm sure there's a part of me that's horribly, horribly ashamed for registering on this place, but that part of me is chained in the dark basement of my medulla oblongata, buried underneath a ridiculously powerful urge to follow the genetic imperative of every warm-blooded multi-celluar male: to spread my genes as far and as wide as possible. Damn your selfish gene, Dawkins, damn you to hell.
Christ on a crutch, if any of my friends actually find me on this thing, I'll never live it down. The things we men do for the faintest glimmer, the tiniest, most miniscule hope of vagina, it's amazing.
In retrospect, it seems registering here is a combination of the stress of finals, the lack of sleep, the Adderol (sp? Does this thing even know to check pharmacutical brand names?), the caffiene, the nicotine, and a mighty powerful urge to rub one off. And I probably shouldn't put my face up here I was afraid of being recognized, but there's something to be said for being upfront about things.
The porn I've been staring at for the past 8 hours probably didn't help.
Fuck it. If anyone I know finds me on this, I'll blame in on the drugs.
Hmm. The mood bar doesn't have "strung-out drug-addled Charles Whitman waiting to happen." Why must blogs be so limiting in the mood category? What, do the companies that produce these beasts take us for walking wastes-of-sperm without so much as two brain cells to rub together that we are so verbally incapable of communicating our mood through the text or our writing, or better yet, writing it in the goddamn box?[/]
I need more drugs.
And to get laid.
Alas, right hand, I can always count on you.