Saturday, April 17, 2010

I follow John Larroquette on Twitter.

The gray carpet underneath my feet is scrunchy.  I would like to tell you that it is not wet with my cum, but I can't.  I guess that starts us out kinda creepy.  And that is regrettable.  I like to keep  my creepiness to myself and slowly let you in on it.  That way my creepiness is more like an inside joke that we share than some kind of mental illness on my part.

Like when I tell you I can't control my shivering around women anymore and that I am not too sure how long I can make it if I don't get some sex soon.

I'd offer to sit you some place other than next to me on the couch, but that would require moving all the used paper plates off of my chair, and I hate moving shit off my chair.  My chair is not for sitting. My chair is an extra dining room table.

Also you sitting close to me is about as close as I get to sex.  So I take your human heat and imagine it to be a warm blankey that you have given me to sleep with when I call out your name in the middle of the night, because of the sleep terrors I get.

I know this makes me seem like a kid to you, even though I am 40 and you are half my age, but I use little mind tricks like that.  Not on purpose.  Not really.  I mean no harm.  No harm is intended.  All you do is think of me younger than I really am when I use my mental tricks on you.

Don't judge me reader.  Nothing ever comes of it.

JL did not write this, I did.

1 comment:

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