He has a big ass for a man. A steatopygic motherfucker, he is. I wanna kill him and all his pugilistic words. He's afraid of confrontation--he probably cries himself to sleep at night. He smooths his mustache and wiggles his weak chin when he verbally masturbates at the dinner table. I wanna reach across the table and stab him in the eye with my butter knife; see him squeal, his belly undulate when he wiggles on the floor. Knowing him, he might find the need to stop screaming just to say "Ahoy mateys. 'Are you bleeding', you ask? Now, let us all stop for a moment and note the appropriateness with which someone who speaks in heavy rhetoric would ask..."

I like guys. I'm a slut. If you're cute and you're drunk, I might try and dance with you. I might try and grab your ass and make it look like an accident. Trust me, you'll be glad I did. It'll be the only thing that keeps you going for a month. You'd wonder how such a rad girl would brighten your day by acknowledging you. Do you secretly wish you'd run into me again? If I saw you, I wouldn't even recognize you because I'm a slut that grabs every cute guy's ass. You might feel like a generic asshole and you'd be right. You are.

She wears chiffon and thinks it makes her look fat. Stupid bitch. Your fat makes you look fat. Stupid bitch. Anonymous blogs? Not really. It plays music and sings along to it because it thinks it can sing. It can't. It sounds like a microphone too close to an amp during doomsday. Oh, man. Musician reference and I'm not even one. I'd fart in your face if we ever saw each other.

I ate my foot today. I couldn't help it. Summer's gone and the rain is back. It was sinewy and the veins got in the way. I had to shave my back again. My psoriasis smells like cucumber. My friend thinks she's better than me. She's fat and eats crayons.