The Whacker - 09.09.02 - 12:51 am
Look!

You know you're in some kind of fucked situation when you find yourself eating ice cream at midnight in the hopes that you'll have some crazy dreams. Cuz, lately, even your dreams are boring you.

My dreams. Are boring.

Fuck.

There is a cure for this. There has to be. And I should be looking for it instead of bitching about it. Take that, you silly girl.

Tonight, Vicky, May and I went to the diner and stared the walls. As with most nights, the topic turned to The Future.

We started talking about getting our own house and what we would need to do that. May mentioned that someone else should live with us, too, and that brought the total up to four humans in one house.

Finding a modestly priced four bedroom home in Florida? Especially a part of Florida where the beach is never more than fifteen minutes away? Fucking impossible.

So I came up with the idea of getting a three bedroom and dividing two bedrooms in half with some kind of partition. The remaining bedroom would be the private one for private things.

Like masturbating.

I wish I had a camera for when Vicky realized that I was, more or less, proposing we turn the third bedroom into our very own masturbation den.

C'mon. You know that is a good idea. Think of the decorating possibilities.

Hee.

We could call it the Whacker.

"Yeah, I'm going to the Whacker. Don't be alarmed if you hear me praising Jesus."

Reason number two why I am going to hell? That sentence. Right there. I'm going to burn.

Reason number one why I am going to hell? I bullshit and love it.

Hee. The Whacker. Hee hee.

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