'm stroking my cock; I'm stroking my cock; I'm stroking my cock for you. I'm stroking my cock and cumming in your dead fucking hair, it's true, and when I think of you I want to masturbate morbidly to all sorts of tragedies. But will you love me? Will you love me when I'm gone soon? When I'm lying pale and putrefied, looking at the gorgeous rot eating away at my slender nicotine-stained fingers as I run my hands through my hair. I pull out a big clump of my own hair and want to cum on it.
I went to a college football game yesterday afternoon, saw Indiana University get clobbered by Michigan State, 56-21. IU football has been dismal for quite awhile, but they were expected to do much better at home against a State team that's had alot of problems lately. BAH! I had $100 on that game and lost, even with the point spread. I like going to football games even though I need to be on anxiety medication. I can't sit still; my balls keep tingling, even in public; even amidst a crowd of fans my balls keep tingling; even with a red and white Hoosier pom-pom in my hand I cannot enjoy myself because I see you a few bleachers down in your wrappings, you mummified slut! You wear your dirty egg-shell white cloth wrappings that are smeared with both of our blood and I can't have fun. I can't cheer for the home team because I'm losing 100 bucks (I couldn't say anything; I'd told my friends I was with that I'd quit gambling). I needed a DRINK and I'm shaking (I'd told my friends I was with that I'd quit drinking) and my balls are tingling (I'd told my friends that I'd quit morbidly masturbating- I'm certain they'd be disappointed if they discovered this journal). A girl I came to the game with is sitting beside me, giving me a soft smile every once in awhile, you know, like a "This is fun, huh?" kind of thing. She likes me alright, I guess; she likes me as a friend and I could never imagine her sucking my cock in reality, but I phantasize about it morbidly all the time. I phantasize morbidly about alot of things.
HAHAHA!!!! I finally get home later, turn on the TV, and realize that even though I lost money on the IU game, I won $100 on three other games, so I breathe a sigh of relief and sit at my computer, shaking, grabbing my crotch, shoving out of the way all the empty boxes of cigarettes and crumbled up one dollar bills that surround my keyboard. I pull my beautiful, hard cock out of my pants and realize I have to get up to fix myself a whiskey and coke. I know what that mummified slut in the bandages wants; her beautiful dead brown nipple is dangling from her soft, damp tittie by a single thread of tissue and she wants me to bite it off for her so she can go back to the land of white darkness and pre-natal baby blood. Fucking gorgeous mummified whore showing me her cut up titties! Oh, wonderful!
Aaaaaaaah, my cock is free!- it is hard and bouncing up and down as I shuffle into the kitchen with my pants around my ankles to fix my drink. HeHeHe. Life is good when I'm about to get drunk and talk to the dead and masturbate morbidly. Isn't it funny how as soon as you feel that tinge of alcohol on your tongue, you are no longer alone? It is the dead. They don't call alcohol "spirits" for nothing, I don't think. Aaaaaah . . . with my (gorgeous!) cock in my hand I start to stroke it, looking at a variety of sweet asses and succulent, soft titties I have on display on my computer screen. Pretty faces connected to round asses and so many secrets are revealed. I have a little concrete statue of St. Francis to the left of my computer. To the right, there is a much larger statue of St. Fiacre, patron saint of gardeners and cab drivers but I call him my "grave-digger" as he holds a shovel and a bouquet of flowers for all the dead girls I've ever wanted to cum on before. Nice girls smile at me softly at ball games; they will never suck my cock. St. Rose of Lima, St. Imelda, and Little Flower have their portraits before me as I get drunk and jack off to porn on the InterNet like it's something noteworthy to write about on the Internet HA!
Stroke it, stroke it, stroke it like a champ! Play with it magestically and jerk it morbidly, dear brother. I'm about to cum. I'm about to fucking CUUUUUM! Hee! Hee! And she is going to knock on my door, the mummified slut I reluctantly adore. The girl in the wrappings; the lonely, lost girl whom I've been put on this earth to emancipate. My balls are tingling. My dick is throbbing and the purple head looks like a war helmet. Will you love me? Nice girls with soft smiles at football games will love me once I'm lying atop Christ's burial shroud in some Victorian mansion in England (I've been reading Dickens) somewhere as five or six girls suck my cock as I look at my rotten, slender fingers; pull out clumps of my hair as these girls suck on my cock atop the death blanket of the Lord I love to obsess over. I squirm my little ass on the seat in front of the picture of Little Flower as I imagine her naked and it will never end. As long as the lonely, mummified slut walks around in her bandages. As long as her luscious, lacerated brown nipple dangles from that thread of tissue I will still be around to cum on everything until I finally get the courage to bite it off.
