I have spent virtually every single waking moment since 5 pm on Friday the 17th (ironically, perhaps, a day dedicated to stop violence against sex workers) bitterly weeping and snotting all over miniscule pee-pee, using the organic low vicosity mix for lube as I feverishly, relentlessly masturbate to alleviate the overwhelming grief over being stood up at the Hula Hut altar by my once beloved Sophie Bella.
What kind of a tart, nay, what sort of a dizzy minge, pulls a NCNS on her own nuptials? My faith in the basic decency of humanity has been razed and laid to waste.
I suspect her affections towards me all along were simply a sophisticated calculated ruse and that now she has absconded with the $25 gift cards in her bridal registry to ply the favors of strippers and other purveyors of carnality and lure them into her sapphic thrall.
I fear that I am now forced to engage my own Plan B. Thanks to The One Who Must Not Be Named, I am giving up on all women and I'm going to explore homosexuality. I mean, if I'm going to be fucked in the ass this way, I might as well have it done by an expert.
As a now former homophobe, I'm not sure where to begin, but according to their website, Greyhound has a bus arriving from Wichita in a few minutes and I suppose I could just hang out in the bus terminal bathroom and do my best impression of former GOP senator from Idaho, Larry Craig. I'll just play footsie in the stall and see what happens. After all, my folks did pay for tap dance lessons when I was a kid. It's about time I put that training to good use.