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Disjointed thoughts.
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Too much painting. My hands hurt.
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Have looked at too many pictures of naked men and then immediately had my way with my poor abused pussy.
If I die mid-wank, the coroner in my little conservative town is going to be extraordinarily surprised to find an njoy in my ass*.
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The charming and large-cocked** Para from Chilli Talk is interviewing me in the morning. I’m flipping terrified.
I know what’s going to happen. He’s going to sweet-talk me for a half-hour. He’s going to get me all horny and stuff***. He’s going to make me drop my guard.
Then he’ll bring out the tough questions. He’ll ask me about quadratic equations, or Heidegger, or the correct use of the present perfect progressive tense, and I’ll be completely flummoxed.
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Madame X, we’ve got to stop coming at the same time. Unless we’re in the same room.
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Yeah, um, that’s all. My brain is mush from painting and naked men.
I’d swear of painting and naked men, but I think that resolution would fail in about a day.
At least the naked men part.
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*Thanks so much for putting this idea in my head. You know who you are.
**So I’ve heard. I have no direct knowledge of this. Yet.
***Yeah, like that’s difficult.
