Anyways, I was interrupted with the previous article by the girls waking up. They're gone now, one's washing a car, the other's washing a fridge, I think, in any case washing something. There's a lot of washing going on in my enchanted house of mirrors up in the clouds -- come to think of it, Ima order onei to count the mirrors in the place. Not the hand-helds, just the wall-anchored mirrors, and not the panels or anything either, just a layman's notion of "item".
See, there I go, interrupting myself again. But anyways, with any luck we'll have a count in time for press time. We see.
I was saying, they're great girls, thoroughly broken -- you likely don't know this, for lack of any imagination coupled with an absolute absence of any sort of life experience worth the mention -- but the broken girl grows differently, infinitely more pleasingly than the wildii variant. "Different", which is to say to her own nature self-adequately correct ; the broken woman blossoms splendidly and perfumes incensingly, of her own power. You wouldn't think corcoduse peaches, Mackinaw peaches or otherwise peaches, if you knew what corcoduse were ; you don't mistake rosehips for Maria Callas (the rose) I should hope, and so is the case here -- left to "her own devices", abandoned to her fate the girl turns into a bitter, thorny, sad wreck of the woman she could've been, if only were she beaten in timeiii, tied and whipped in time, strangled in time, if only she had her "wings" clipped in all the right places at the right times... I can see you cringing as you read this gospel yet it's true, it's beyond true, it's outright incontrovertible : a girl neglected turns into no kind of anything, nor is supposed "independence" any sort of excuse for the sort of abuse implied in that neglect. Who pays for all the sad, anyways, in your hallucinated world of "choices" ? You're going to try and foist the bill on me when it becomes unbearable ? It ain't gonna work! What the fuck am I, the backer of every moron's nonsense worldview ?!
Oh, and we have a count : nineteen mirrors! From tiny ones the size of a palm to full walls covered in reflective crystal, there's nineteen mirrors in the house up high. But I was saying... what the fuck was I saying, anyways ? I was sitting over breakfast, delicious harem sandwiches, of fine imported gorgonzola and smoked trout and marinaded artichoke buds and olives and pickled palm hearts and arugula. With milk -- everything breakfast's better with a tall mug of milk, and of course bell peppers and well... I was going to write it down, whatever it was, but the thing now here in my lap, the thing upon which I now write (mostly) undisturbed was then across the great distances, a good fifty paces away -- not for any particular reason but because it had to sit down somewhere, you can't carry everything with you all the time like some sort of hermit (crab or otherwise) and so necessarily everything will be set down, somewhere. In your own house, as it were, but then if you go have breakfast against that mountain view (as opposed to this mountain view) you're then... across the god damned tower from where you left this thing and so you either walk back instead of eating, because it's far enough it puts itself quite thusly, or else eat instead of writing.
Choices, what can I tell you. So I ate instead of writing, sue me. The truth of the matter is that before being pluriously interrupted, I had somewhere in all this an article.
But then... I ated it.———
- But... which one ? I do this thing, you know, predicates without the predicated, sentences missing a subject, "do this", "bring me that", they both start, they never know which one I mean... it is frustrating, I am told, and I can see it occasionally anger them, but... it amuses me, so what can you do. And by you I very much don't mean you. Occasionally I'll just be holding my dick and yell "whooore!" and there you go (by which I don't mean you). My life's amazingly simple for how elaboratedly complicated it is, and also I mostly fuck them standing because beds are for invalids and they're more in the vein of fuckbeasts than fuckinvalids, these girls of mine.
Try this, incidentally, tell yours "put your foot up there" as an invitation to that oldest game. You know, just like I do. See if she can hold full inguinal extension while being fucked for long enough to have you satisfied ; for that matter, see if her sex becomes exposed, ready for intromission, through the mere act of lifting her ankle above her tits from a standing position. No pants, you know, or in the words of an anodyne sheila "your body becomes used to it" -- and so it does. Very very used. [↩]
- We call them "civillians" occasionally, but the proper, as well as well earned and thoroughly deserved, not to mention self-evidently obvious terminology's never quite so flattering. On the cuntrary. [↩]
- "I wish you'd done that years ago! And harder, and often, and occasionally fucked me after!" [↩]