Sometimes I wake up the morning, either clothed in whatever I put on Friday morning (making it to Sunday before changing) or not at all. The sheets have fallen off my bed and there's dog hairs and tomato sauce everywhere, the smell of spilt goon from a few nights ago forcing me to race to the bathroom and retch for a while and wonder when my life is supposed to turn around and be normal. Or functional, at least.
Then I read slutever and am reminded that I don't have an Irish book-bitch, cook up ketamine in my London squatter apartment or inspire women all over the world to take their clothes off and write 'slutever' on their chests. Subsequently, for a second I feel regretful of all the nights out I'm clearly missing and the titty/erection emails I don't get and then realise that I like my big queen size bed (usually with sheets), being able to watch tv/use the internet and waking up knowing who I am and where I am and that I could never live without a bed-base or stay on drugs longer than 5 hours.
It's also a cruel reminder that there are people in the world who have bigger problems than me. Don't you hate it when that happens?
therefore:
- send me titty pics
- if i could break into a vet school the first thing i would steal would be k.
- i have dog hairs between my fingers.
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