I write tonight with no caffeine or vit. E in my blood, but oh, how I wish I had some right now, despite the way they make me sleep.
I wish for that energy beverage that stimulates, the ones that perk me, then deflate. They drive me drowsy after this; this drink I wish that I did have.
A false Idle I understand, a strange god of every land, but I want this burden that is just so close, just a walk to the store for this drink that I implore.
That might die, and it\'s doubling too, for even Shakespeare made that boo boo. The typo of only one, O just one that they\'re by, in one of his ancient writes—just sonnet three that I do see.
He forgot a that oh me oh my, he forgot it at his mistake. Shakespeare was not a good girl; though probably black and lots of cum.
Some say she was 12, and her poems cast a horny spell. And my semen was once real thick. Like glue or even, tooth jelly.
But then I did something most unspeakable; I put moisturizer on my balls and shaft.
And oh, did the lotion burn; the black stuff now does not come out. I\'m no longer most horny, and I now shit a lot, and buddy, I do now piss a lot.
Water retention is not the same; I only got one person to blame, but can you forgive me for scorning off by mistake, the strange god of masterbate?
Can you tell me one honest person who wouldn\'t want to fuck Strawberry Shortcake, another strange god?