The only "woman's love" that a man can enjoy without constant vomit-inducing terror of snidely eroticised defilement is what he gets from his mother, so it's a Real Bummer when that falls through as well.
An optimist by nature, I can't continually despair of ever being loved without a strict humiliation regimen—staging such disgraces as ensure, even for a pervert as obtuse, insistent, and delusional as myself, the sustained subjective appropriation of its antecedent foreclosure.
Steal another mid-clause minute/ staring through the page and at the/ index of anxieties you've/ fruitlessly retabulated/ seven times this paragraph and/ dozens more your inkblot-ceilinged/ solitary sentence thus far.
A Jew crawled out of a storm drain on the corner of Papamoa Beach Road just to show me this image and tell me "You'll never have this," before smacking my creaming soda out my hand.
When a male songwriter goes too long without at least *alluding* to being some kind of rapist pedophile monster etc., I genuinely start to feel physically ill. What are you even doing this for, GIRLS? You demented fucking pervert.
I feel like all of the nice looking girls who follow me have a group chat where they debate who likes what specific tweet at what time so as to make me feel as ashamed of myself as possible.
Formally perfect chudservation from the 'dornz here, whether true or not—who cares?—of "Jazz" (meme genre). Countless eunuchlike fixtures of normopathic discourse to which it applies: Enrolling To Vote. Having Sex. Knowing How To Drive A Car. FUCK OFF!
NOTHING in my life, nothing gentle, soft, or warm, is sheltered from the LURID HORROR, the GASPING IDIOT PANIC, into which everything, every so often, BURSTS AS IF INTO FLAMES! It's chill though.