You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck.

...so I said, "Dry hump my blunt mechanism, 2 dimensional organ". And they all laughed. And that's how I started my happiness cartel.

Oh, sorry. I didn't see you there. I wrote a story, though it hurts to read it back, potentially because we here at junction 31992582H haven't invented self censorship or a sense of integrity beyond the level of a politician and/or sociopath. If you are curious of the motivations behind the revealing of this specific structure as opposed to, say, the gates of heaven opening, or an attempt to open the cell door of a jail to which you were sent for the crimes of another man, by fashioning your entire brainspace into the appropriately shaped key, and whose inevitable failure due to the accelerated evolution of defensive mechanisms over transcendental sex organs due to the voices which won't leave you alone making it impossible for any outcome to exist which doesn't end up with a comedy routine at your expense, you need look no further than over there. Without ado, here is the story -

Licky the giraffe is an animal in the zoo, it doesn't wear clothes or shoes. It only eats leaves as it's a chicken in disguise. It's scared of my teeth, and the poo underneath, so it's neck is all high, as if it could talk to the sky, which is fucking moronic if you ask me. I will put its clothes on, though. I will make it submit, even if it requires all the energy in the known universe. You will see, naked mugged guy in a dumpster. You will see. Right after I eat this giraffe. 

( I have this machine here that makes infinite food, but I prefer the overall satisfaction of eating a giraffe and I destroy all possibility due to my own greed. It tried to tell me but I shot it in the fucking head, thus rendering its thoughts obsolete, which suitably subliminally is often the precursor to rape. )

At the clock bell of 14 and 2439 A.D. I retracted this statement. I keep it here as a reminder of the exciting places the universe takes me, or perhaps more accurately, the shapes it squeezes me into when all possibilities collapse into a single interpretation - often the nametag of a Walmart employee, a jar of nutmeg or a pleasant odor juxtaposed with the potent secretion of a mammal in heat. Is that inappropriate? I don't know. I'm probably autistic.