boy howdy

Loperamide is a wonder drug. It converted all my gut gas into a lot- and I mean a lot- of deep, long, silent farts.

Now it stinks in here but at least I am not debilitated by bloating and the attendant .... symptoms, lets say...

Pt. 2
Yesterday, Lara got short with me—snapped at my tweet like I’d kicked her cat and I don’t know she’s a dog person. I bet if she did know me, she’d like me more than she’d ever admit in public, and be the type to tell me I’m a perv after volunteering to me the color of her panties on the third meetup (black).

So, I slid into her DMs and offered to finger bang her, knowing she’s married, because it’s not technically cheating on her husband, and she doesn’t look happy on her timeline. I mean, I can love a public figure for their beautiful mind or amazing tits, so bitch please. She hasn’t replied, probably busy exposing conspiracies or googling “how to block creeps that will haunt her in ways that are always unblocked.” My bad, Lara.

I voted pineapple to feel popular and pretend even I didnt want to be loved or at peace if I decide I want to try and grow again, but sometimes trying to grow is like throwing a party and only your cousin shows up with stale chips because asian bot gangs saturate your social media.

By minute 15, I was replying to myself: “Great point, me!”; “Wow, so true king, maybe if I start writing poetry again and Swift responds on the radio again, I won’t have another crazy random follow me into the pawn store, see me looking for a ratchet socket I need, and scream to the whole store loudly ‘who does he think he is, King Socket?’ (that actually happened in real life).

I checked OP’s profile—dude’s got 12 followers and a bio that says “Swiftie 4 Life.” No shade, but maybe he’s too busy ranking Folklore B-sides to notice this thread’s a ghost town. I bet he’s crying to “All Too Well” while ignoring my gourmet placement discourse. Rude.
Minute 20, I started live-tweeting my descent into madness. “Day 47 in the thread: I’ve named the tumbleweed Carl.” Still nada. I even tried baiting engagement with “RT if you hate Mondays!”—cringe, I know, but desperation’s a hell of a drug.