Today the CIA gang-stalkers said I’m supposed to get drunk and hit on cashiers. Be friendly at least. Hard. Can’t do what the cross-talkers said to do in a Demonstrative Performative Transmission; just talk. Oh what I’d do today? Oh well, y’know, my CIA life partner is in the hospital as part of his ploy to defraud the government in which he shoe-horned my help in this matter by having me report honestly at how he is manipulating me just as he manipulates doctors. Oh, and I wrote a poem. Jacked off once. Wrote 2k words in that true story of me getting taken advantage of by the cult. God talked to me again, he said…what? American Gladiator? You watched that all weekend? Oh, I see you have the full capacity to empathize with me. Better open up about how I like my sister’s feet. And this is what I live with. Never good enough. Dad beat tf outta me. Shit in my soul. Won’t even talk to me now. Not good enough. Well, all you fucks are gunna feel my wrath in Heaven.
Bro, I am the birds
Honestly, both are on the payroll.
I am the payroll and the infernal taco from Little Caesars. Both. Don’t get any ideas.
Ok grandpa, I think it’s nap time now. I’ll put on your stories for you
I put dogs in the ass of sailors back when you were just cthudging your mother’s flamourous cunt. You pidgeon-holed little turkey wither. Go back to gramma. She’s got a dog for you. Solvent green is flavors of the Irish.
There’s an infernal taco at little scissors? Sorry dude I got all the ideas right now.
I’m scissor your little sister, if you’d let me, which is obviously a joke about cannibalism, which is a sport I’m quite good at.