There are so many admirably nihilistic bitches in this back-alley of the internet. I mean it–I am side-struck with respect for the eternal sunburns on the backs of their necks, which never see the sun but languish in a frothy bath of variegated hair dyes and the dim nightlong luminescence of their bedroom computer monitors. I am truly, truly smitten. These are the wonder-women of the age, with numb callous eyelids, slit to a perfection, calipered by internal woes and decadent self-destructions. The love they want can only be deliver’d in the throatless click of a wet shotgun shell that haphazardly does not go off in the end. This is a love that I am distinctly suited to provide.
In the cooling shell of my loving insults, a grain of black powder still spits in the depths of the 10-gauge caverns. I suck on your fingers, tasting chipped layers of nail polish, whose corroded spectrum oozes promises of the human gobstopper you are. I can master you through my slavehood, enduring the unbathed scents billowing from the humid clefts in your body, under sandy comforters emblazoned with sun-bleached characters from the public-access morning specials of our childhoods. I will serve you chilled bowls of cereal in the morning and gaze wistfully out of the golden window pane by our bed, hanging onto every grunt and slurp, every shift and overflow of the porcelain milk, ever so slightly darkening the lap of your silken gown.
Ride your holographic nightmare, lovelies. I sire with you in the gravest of isolations.