Because I can't quite make my head stay unshitted, here's another answer to questions that resulted in Googlers finding my blog while looking for answers from Dr. Internet.
It's really just me being immature or something, duh.
(from India, 9/20/2008 7:21:15 AM)
Q: how to find out a vegina whether it is fucked or not
A: Kim Kardashian's pussy made meatloaf every morning in the summer house where I grew up. She sat paper muffins on each side of the container where my knees would knock while we bred cats. Hmmm was all she'd ever say, and her lips made the kitchen portraits of dad's wart-back change complexion. The sweat would pour out of that bitch and we'd go swimming. My swimmies were inflated with more wet, mostly the liquid mold that was sapped out of my father's head wound, so usually I sank. My dick had a tent inside it that I could go hide in for sulking when my paper mask hurt. Shit was all I'd ever say back to her hmmming but I only said it to myself cause I didn't want to get smacked, though once I also said it to the black masseuse who came hid rolled in my shower curtain each morning and would watch me drop the soap on a rope tied to my mother in her cradle in the other kitchen, where one morning after Kim Kardashian's pussy finished with the cooking, mom would braid the pussy's hairs into a weekend vacation at the Honolulu Publix. In the first five minutes, no matter what treats we packed to keep her distracted with the family business, Kim Kardashian's pussy's vegina got really wasted off its own rot and rolled into town to throw its own early birthday party on the place where oil had made the water hard, and it wouldn't answer when we skreeked its name over the beach PA or into the wound in our father, propped on his ass under the bacon ceiling. Then, when Kim Kardashian's pussy's vegina came back, six to eight days later, by which point all of my family had gone home but me, Kim Kardashian's pussy had a flower on its lapel and a little bell between its teeth that it would ring and ring, and when I took by the hand it would giggle and fart through its nostrils and there was always this awful violin noise, and soon we couldn't stand up, and soon we heard my mom's voice shouting through the sunset at Kim Kardashian's pussy's vegina to stop being so fucked and getting its fuck all over me, her only son, and the vegina blushed and threw up a little, and I guess that's the first time I thought anything about anybody.
Yeah, cool, Blake, ok.
I should talk to myself on here more often.
I liked Virus 1 by Brian Oliu in Brevity Magazine, I've actually seen Oliu around a lot recently and like what he is doing.
Finished another draft of EVER today, I think it is very close to final, I am thankful to have something to edit because I can't really get my head on straight enough to write clearly in more than a few hundred words at a time. I haven't been able to read much either. I don't know what's going on.
I want to stop drinking coffee, I will pay a Mormon to come and stand next to me with a biscuit that they can stick in my mouth whenever I try to drink more coffee, it's not doing me any good anymore, maybe I should developed a spiced ham addiction, I bet if you eat enough you'd hallucinate in a way that would be just as beneficial as caffeine.
A famous author this weekend asked me if a watermelon can really be raped, which Yes, a watermelon can be raped.
A white and gold donkey just came into my typing, no shit.
What is an attractive way to get a semi-long complex sentence tattooed on your body? I don't know where, arms? I don't have any conception of the way things like that would be arranged, I can't even put a sofa in a room neatly, but I found a sentence I think I want, I also want some Cookie Crisp so I can remember concretely that that shit is nasty.
I don't want to do anything really, I don't know.