Dear Cruel World,
Firstly, I would like to address Dame Samantha in particular: rest assured, my sexy lady friend, that the Fear is moochul. Since my departure from the grim, soggy streets of New York City, the Fear has fondled me like a svety scrotum. It juggles one after the other, plopping each testicle back and forth in its demon-fingers like those magical Chinese stress balls. Needless to say, my thumbs have gone weird. I feel like a mermaid, but not like usual; usually I’m swimming through a brilliant blue sea, accompanied on either side by silver dolphins humming magical tunes by S-Club 7 and Papa Roach. No, it’s not the same now. Now I’m lying dried up on the beach, the once shimmering scales on my tail fin crunchy and crackled like aged man-milk on my legs. All the while seagulls pick at my scaled crotch, ripping the jewels from me like the shell from an egg. Yes, this is what my life is away from the city of hope and desire: this is my life without Dame Samantha, my loyal and always-moist sex goddess; this is my life without the urine pools that grace the sidewalk on the way to class, without the crack-heads and drunkards, the cocks and cockroaches. I am stranded.
Woe is me! The world as I know it has ended. Dame Samantha lays motionless on her sickbed on the opposite coast, doped up on vicodin and sipping soup from the sweet ladle of her very attractive mother. She is loopy and in a cracked state (I must admit that at this thought I turn positively GREEN with envy), writing cracked posts on our bastard love child that is our blessed blog Sherry, Sherry. She was, is, and always will be the dirtiest kinkstress in the land. Terrible cunt. Oh how I wish I could once again press her sweet lips to mine, making her tremble like a hormonal volcano. Oh how I only hope that this traumatic knee invasion will not hinder our virile and vociferous moments of intimacy. My heart’s beating like a fucked clock at the thought of it.
I’m currently in wet Massachusetts. I’m sitting on a yellow, spill-resistant sofa next to my grandmother who’s wheezing on a fat cig and sipping a goblet of potent pinot greege. I honestly feel like a pig shat in my head. A big, fat, greasy pig. There are, however, tidings of great joy: I will be going to NYC for the blessed New Year’s Eve. Yes, I predict a night of raucous drinking, misadventures and sexual exploration. The question exists: who will be my news years kiss? Certainly the choice would be clear if Dame Samantha were in tonguing distance. But as she rests peacefully three time zones and a continent’s width away from my hot ass, that choice is out. Who then? Or perhaps I will embrace my true destiny, and new years will be only an indicator of a life destined for loneliness and desperation: perhaps I will have no kiss at all…As Dame Samantha would say, my clit is tingling with anticipation.
Even a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day.
And now I must go watch The Chronicles of Narnia, Prince Caspian.