Don't know what the smeg I'm gonna do. Serious trained professionals with legit degrees from the higher echelon schools haven't been able to figure me out. I keep bankin on divine revelation seconds after unleashing a ball load. Spurt! Oh, oh shit! I understand everything now. It's full of stars......

First issue is that this muthafucker sitting next to me who is compelled to repeat everything I say, verbatim, except for the intonation to make it a question, needs a face clamp. Shut it. The only way to end a conversation with him, well my method anyway is; he does his repeating question dealie, then I ignore him.

Also, who the fuck comes in here to the jobby job, the slavey slave, the bullshit factory, and responds as if this is their main source of social life activity? Too bad, so sad. So sorry that you live in the doldrums of suburban swillery. Did I ask you to move to Jersey, make a munchkin or two, toodle on in to sweet sweet Manhattan with a ninety minute commute, both ways, everyday, and whine over squandering the freedoms you once had? This ain't a party. Don't try and get me to participate in your pitiful escapism.

Get off my tip. Occasional vicarious jaunts happens I suppose. I've never perched my chin on my palms, stared doe eyed, and listened intently to somebody's story of what they did the day before and be satiated by the retelling of events I wish I was involved with. I'm a day dreamer, but holy mud fuck, ease yourself up off someone's jock could ya. I'm surprised they don't ask to smell my fingers. They salivate when I come back in the next day after calling out sick. Did ya get laid, huh, huh, didja didja? Deviant freak I may be. Willing to broadcast my sordid details on a public forum such as this. I may or may not cornhole a chick on a first date, I refuse to rehash those bedroom activities at the office. These cripples claw at me, begging me to relay every sensation. Stankwads.

The same simple fuck who parrots what I say ( points to three paragraphs above, keep up would ya ) just told me to do something. Lovely and delightful that he considers himself my boss, however the task he insisted I perform, I literally told him I was gonna do two minutes ago. I gave him an evil gas face combined with a steady squinty stare. Wonders of Pangea! He actually can take a hint, he's pouting into his monitor, desisting in interacting with me. Excellent. I rock.

Where in the pants was I? Oh yeah, dude's who left their nuts with their wives fantasising of my cock spelunking. They are always so fervent about whether or not I licked her ass, or dropped anchor in there. Quick I am to make anal jokes. Harassment policies be damned. But, I ain't gonna tell ya the expression on my fuck buddy's face as I entered the A train station. I reserve that stuff for solid homies and strangers on the net. You cheeky bastards you.

Rambling.

Focus.

Alrighty. So last night I went to Corinne's birthday party. Wow. Um, I'm all gobbledy gooked in the cranium. Rummaging around the recent memories of last night. Sorry peeps, I gotta think about it. Guess who won't be sleeping. Arrrrrrgh. Well, dammit. Worry not fair readers, super spanky will unfurl all the excitement that a roof party in the West Village can have. Just cross your legs and wait in the lobby patiently. What? Like I know what I mean with the things I say. Puhlease. I am out of my fucking skull. Send medication. No, I'm serious, send me fucking medication.

I'm spent. Fending off work type shit. The server diarhea is marching in on wheelbarrows today. Impatient to the point of having to squeeze a nerve ending to not lash out. Must leave this rot hole.

Might be doing the thing again. That silly thing. She shouldn't be such a hottie. So we have a date this week. Dude, I dunno. I'm a mess. Peace out.