My ebullient nature fell like leaves during autumn time. My obsession with the pass reflects in my incessant return to the same few themes, scenarios and questions; mine meticulous examination and re-examination of banal minutiae for hidden meanings that simply aren't there; like cancer, it has its way like how an idee fixe usurp other important organs of function. this obsession is a mental exhaustion that threatens to black out my life -- is that it is confining, not rebellious, and not fascinating but maddeningly dull.
The french screams merde when they can't orgasm after 20 minutes of thrusting. I feel like an exemplar of someone drowning in a sewage of merde. After 1 year of thrusting, the vaginal stays in a dry spell. No succor seems to be available to rescue me from the dry spell or any e.coli infection from all the thrusting in a sewage system.
No cadging for the past 366 days seems to work. There seems to be no light to my black hole of abulia, feeling feckish by each slow thrust, numbed. Oh man, this is eating my up.
Dear dairy, will i lose my raillery one day with this draught of sagacity? what do you think can mollify me? A taste of some Michelangelo paintings in Italy or perhaps a rendezvous of the sex museum in Paris? A walk down the Thames in London or to catch a picturesque aplenglow in Switzerland again? Maybe feed some kangaroos in Australia or walk till corn sprouts on my feet in Hong Kong?
Its time the public who call themselves my friends start showing some generosity to my Disneyland fund. I should start writing emails to them, highlighting my plight and destitute life. I must do something to precipate my trip to Disneyland...sell my collection of adult toys, write some adult novels and direct some adult films. anything adult to fulfill my childhood dreams. Life is a box full of chocolates. Currently I am chewing on the dark ones. Bitter and I am beginning to long for the raisin filled saccharine ones
