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How did the seagulls get involved in our love triangle? How could I let them see me cry in those foggy rocks of Laguana? You were wearing pigtails that evening. You gave me such a heavenly hard-on. It was pulsating in my clam diggers. I know you saw the bulge but you didn't let on. You were playing up your hooch control. But every single cousin of yours knows you don't have a single drop of restraint you rotten fucking rum slut. I should've blown your brains out on those goody-goody shores but I thought there was still a chance we'd get married and have twins. What a fool I am. What a stupid asshole. I should slit my wrist to "Moonlight Sanata" and accept my eternal punishment but I really want to see what happens next week on my favorite soap opera. Are you and Polly doing 69 in the Bed and Eggs or are you fingering your crackaroni and cheese thinking of my desire shaft? I hope it's the latter. If it is, I'll rush right on over. Give me your new cell number and address. I'll saddle your spread eagle pud pose and piledrive that pulsating piehole until the pubic area sheds to the pizza box-covered floor. But anyway, I know what you're thinking, angel hole. I didn't study astrology for 5 fucking years for nothing. You think I've lost my mind from LSD but you couldn't be less correct. I haven't dropped in 73 days and my thoughts are completely sane in my thought container. I just want you back, baby cakes. Don't leave me masturbating in this public restroom for the rest of my life. Take me into your arms and hold me there until our death, until the smeared chloroform from where our bodies were takes shape and we fly into heaven's auspicious abode. I'll fluff your cloud in the afterlife, Floofy, I'll play a Slayer riff on the golden harp. All you have to do is trust me again. Trust that I won't be downloading pornographic material and sending copies to your parents with photocopies of our birth certificates. Please make an effort to forgive me for my extremely poor behaviour and I'll wrap you up in love bows with a note that says, "Bliss in the afterlife of dawn." I'll email Polly and let him know you're done with his lame ass. If he wants to box, you'll have to buy an official referee shirt and enforce the rules, set up in the parking yard. I'm going to use freeway cones so he doesn't hit me below the belt. As you're well aware, I have a tumor on my balls from eating microwaved farmed animals that I don't want disturbed. Since our breakup, I have given it a name: Chovie. Because the liquid that secretes from it that comes out every morning when I take a dump smells like that little ocean creature that makes up a salad of caesar. And we'll talk all night about the love we once had. If the fight between me and asshole does go down, it'll have to be at 3 o'clock. Because I'm busy teaching yoga from 7AM until noon. And from noon to 2:45 I have my coffee, so 3 would be perfect. I can make it from my pad to the park in 15 minutes. So bring it on Polly Poo. I guess a nice knuckle burrito for your ugly mug. You stole my woman with your medical knowledge. Definitions of types of cancer go over well with the women these days, but I'm going to get her back with my cock size. That surpasses medical knowledge. It's much larger than that -- in her bush. Squid dick. And you'll be the one wearing a thrift shop wig sobbing your peepers out by the polluted sea.
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