Soft. Milky wet. Like honey.

Hi sweethearts of the revolution. How are you today?

This morning, as I was getting into the bath, I removed my luxorious linen robe, which is a designer label that just glides off my smooth body like butter. It really is a sensation. I get goosebumps and the meadow does damper a bit.

My really hung friend (someone ought to node that) Donald told me a joke the other day. He spoils me rotten with jokes and long glances. He is old and has many, many growths on his body, some of which are ferocious in nature, but that cock of his is really something. And Donald really knows how to use it. He even puts it in the right place sometimes.

Machines are not people. They never will be. We evolved from the simian line. Machines don't have time for that. They are good with numbers. We ought to leave numbers alone. Math is distasteful. It is something that Star Trek nerds get into. Makes me sick.

I don't get sick a lot. I don't get motion sickness. I am not a fairy princess or a sweater boy. I am not one of those. I am hot. Smoking hot. I taste like lobster bisque. I really do. Honest to Saint Mary.

You know that I was a sexy camp counselor back in 2004. I am older now. It is a regrettable force of nature. My tits are still round and perfect. I want to put them both in your hands. Once at a time. You can call them "succulents." Look that word up. It is in the dictionary. This is something you won't learn from watching Star Trek. Stop being a nerd for ten minutes and go do something with your life other than being a nerd. Get hot. Get hard. Get horny. Go our and get you some. Hot sex. It is out there waiting for you. It has to be. Call for it by name. Telephone. Internet. Cabbage patch doll.

I have seriously kneecapped motherfuckers for less than that. Goodnight, sir, madam, or however you choose to identify yourself. Come into my camp. Take me back there. I crashed on a desert island where a weird man in a white suit and a midget are coming towards me. They are asking questions. They want to know where my "ticket" is. They have blood in their eyes.

I'm sorry that I killed two kids this summer. I'm too old to be a camp counselor. I want to go back to being a sexy executive assistant.

Yet, I am trapped.

Existential crisis.

We are exulted, Execute the prisoners. They have the disease.

Paid for by the Treat the Ugly Ones Like Farm Animals and put them in their place foundation. Does not exist. Hammer time.

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