A few days ago, while walking through the woods as innocently as you'd like, my eye was caught by a most mightly and businesslike thorn. So I tore it off the briar patch it graced, to admire it closer, and take it home, and pester the womanfolk with.
As I did that I blew off some kind of ant or tiny wingless wasp or whatever off of it ; and then, as innocently as you'd like, let me underscore and underline for truth, I gestured with it menacingly towards exposed nipples and other delicata, because what's the fun in having a thorn otherwise, you know ?
Quoth the poet,
Din codru rupi o ramurea... ce-i pasa codrului de ea ?i
and yet the patch did not care, nor the jungle could have cared less. And yet, a tiny ant or maybe wingless wasp paratrooped out of the gesturing thorn and landed straight on the woman's tit. Which it stabbed. Ow!
Now, I wasn't going to actually stab anyone with the scary, sharp as you'd fucking like three inch natural abomination slash study in perversity. But that's ok, because in biodiversidad land the thorn fucking does it for you, it sends little projectiles out to stab the tits in range. And indeed, upon examination it turned out there's a little hole in the thorn, and actively careful antennae came ever so slightly out before going back in. There was... another one in there! At the least.
So... big deal right ? Except the poor tit in question got these huge, itching, crazy red spots. To quote the misfortunate owner, who had to actually reschedule a boobjob because the plastic surgeon thought "it might be better to wait it out", "if this leaves a fucking scar..."
At about this juncture some serrrrious discussion as to the thorn was had. The item rested peacibly in a little display of candles and dead butterflies and seashells and whatnot I have on a hallway table, but it was in the house, yes ? And who knows what the enmitous insect might dedicate itself to at night, while we sleep!!! And besides, who's to know there's only one of them in there ? Maybe, as it was proposed, there's two, and they'll reproduce. Or maybe, as I offered in appeasement, they don't even need to be two, one can just get lonely enough by itself to turn female and lay eggs.
The assistence thoroughly grossed out, I proceeded to apply the Romanian cure to what-ails-you : put some alcohol on it. I whipped out the 199 proof bottle of ethyl alcohol (medicinal purposes, srlsy), and dribbled three our four drops upon the very hole, carefully, using the nonbusiness end of a large matchstick.
This morning, there was one dead ant or wingless wasp guy under the thorn in question ; and another one poking its head out. As I said yesterday, "they had the party of a lifetime". I'm sure they did.
PS. The tit's doing a lot better, dun worry about itit.
While all this was going on, somewhere else,
abuseforyoumalesii [1d] Ha ha ha , are you for fucking real? Which planet do you live on shit head ?
LordMPofTMSR 39M Master [1d] The planet is mine. Who are you again ?
Oh dear. You are such a sad individual
Ya ya. Get back to me once you're getting ready to shed this girlish yakkity-yak cloak of fear and nonsense. Though... considering how old you are you really should have started maturing towards womanhood a while ago, What do you figure is the cause for your developmental delay ?
you seem to be at a similar mental develepment from your crazy rantings. You are a really strange person and why would anyone would want to submit to you . You are a complete oddball
High class ideals and shit. What can you do, right ?———
- Ce-i pasa unei lumi intregi, de moartea mea ? [↩]
- You know, 22F, "Domme", "I am your delightful girl next door but don't underestimate me. I am a mean and cruel domme and will push you to the limit. Are you ready to suffer for me?" bla bla bla.
Finisce sempre cosi, con la morte. Prima, però, c'è stata la vita. La vita, nascosta sotto il bla, bla, bla, bla, bla. Tutto è sedimentato sotto il chiacchiericcio e il rumore : il silenzio è il sentimento, l'emozione e la paura. Gli sparuti, incostanti sprazzi di bellezza. E poi lo squallore disgraziato e l'uomo miserabile. Tutto è sepolto dalla coperta dell'imbarazzo dello stare al mondo. Bla, bla, bla, bla, bla.
Altrove, c'è l'altrove. Io non mi occupo dell'altrove. Dunque, che questo romanzo abbia inizio. In fondo, è solo un trucco.
Si, è solo un trucco. [↩]