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-- you know what would be super embarassing as a rapist?
you know what would be super embarassing as a rapist?
being a premature ejaculator or not being able to get it up.
think about how sad that would be. Your circle of rapist influence would be mocking you, your own victims would have sympathy...hey dont worry there jimmy im sure youre just stressed out. next time. *rolls eyes*
fucckkk poor rapists
theres alot of pressure there to perform. if shes pointing you out in the court of law you dont want her tellin everyone to drop their pants and she looks for the smallest limpest dick. im telling you being a rapist is tough guys...alot of pressure...alot
not that i know or anything this is just the type of stuff i thnk of when im sick at home
And now I will be your life coach.
Buy yourself a new sofa, a big three-seated soft thing that will fit nicely in front of your TV and complement the colors of the living space, perfect central point of congregation for the guests of a casual dinner party. Then get to work on your pantry and vegetable bin, stocking up on spices and tubers and greens of all manner and sort. Get a recipe book and learn it well, chopping and baking your way to culinary expertise.
Now make your way to a local trade show and buy impressive swords and knives, mounting them along the walls of your refurbished home. When people ask you about them, say nervously that they remind you of your uncle, and if questioned further change the subject and let your guests know that you hope the wine is suiting them well.
One day we will all live in Paris against a cloudless blue sky watching the swoopings of birds, remarking to one another in short phrases, in French of course, though we are not quite sure what day it is or when exactly we picked up French. No matter. The city of light has become the city where everybody is from everywhere else, and there is no alienation in tow, just endless summer days with a wind that is a bit too strong and threatens to blow away the papers in your hands covered with something like writing.
The wet ink presses against your hands, adding to the black semi-scribbles already there. Your vision has been getting blurrier for a time, though it is hard to be sure how long. The dream is fraying at the edges, old cloth not torn but disintegrating. You realize there are tears in your eyes and they sting, it grows harder to breathe, your chest a pool whose depth you keep overestimating, trying to capture oxygen that seems to have fled the area.
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| Originally posted by MrJiveBoJingles And now I will be your life coach. Buy yourself a new sofa, a big three-seated soft thing that will fit nicely in front of your TV and complement the colors of the living space, perfect central point of congregation for the guests of a casual dinner party. Then get to work on your pantry and vegetable bin, stocking up on spices and tubers and greens of all manner and sort. Get a recipe book and learn it well, chopping and baking your way to culinary expertise. Now make your way to a local trade show and buy impressive swords and knives, mounting them along the walls of your refurbished home. When people ask you about them, say nervously that they remind you of your uncle, and if questioned further change the subject and let your guests know that you hope the wine is suiting them well. One day we will all live in Paris against a cloudless blue sky watching the swoopings of birds, remarking to one another in short phrases, in French of course, though we are not quite sure what day it is or when exactly we picked up French. No matter. The city of light has become the city where everybody is from everywhere else, and there is no alienation in tow, just endless summer days with a wind that is a bit too strong and threatens to blow away the papers in your hands covered with something like writing. The wet ink presses against your hands, adding to the black semi-scribbles already there. Your vision has been getting blurrier for a time, though it is hard to be sure how long. The dream is fraying at the edges, old cloth not torn but disintegrating. You realize there are tears in your eyes and they sting, it grows harder to breathe, your chest a pool whose depth you keep overestimating, trying to capture oxygen that seems to have fled the area. |
u think about some weird shit man 
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| Originally posted by Reza u think about some really boring shit man |
after w-ashley ate Eric with a fine bottle of merlot, he decided to post from his computer.
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| Originally posted by Vivid Boy not that i know or anything this is just the type of stuff i thnk of when im sick at home |
Never thought about it before...the guy is totally right.
What else do yo think about when at home, I'm curious lol
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| Originally posted by OkiDokie Never thought about it before...the guy is totally right. What else do yo think about when at home, I'm curious lol |
| quote: |
| Originally posted by OkiDokie Never thought about it before...the guy is totally right. What else do yo think about when at home, I'm curious lol |
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| Originally posted by Vivid Boy well its not so much what i think of, like i just dreamnt of a tsunami of dicks rushing through a small island like fiji or something. crushing through buildings like a battering ram, impaling people riding their bikes just drowning the complete island in dicks. and on top of this mega wave of pulsating boners is me on a surfboard at the very front, with my sunglasses on and a leather jacket like bret the hitman hart screaming intimidating things like "IM CUMIN FIJIANS! MUAHAHAHA" |
| quote: |
| Originally posted by jonSun after w-ashley ate Eric with a fine bottle of merlot, he decided to post from his computer. |
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