fuuuuck, dudes. i'm so hungover on sex. you know the feeling? like you blew your load on a chick three times in the night after getting her on such a fucking soaker and now you're waking up in really really wet sheets, haha. kind of disgusting, but kind of fucking sweet at the same time. damn, my body feels like a corpse and my head feels like donkey balls. shit, that's so baudelaire, like paris spleen or some shit, even though i shouldn't rag on that work because it's like some of the most legitimately crafted prose poems ever. fuck, whatever, poetry is for soft cunts anyway, haha, psyche. except eliot like isn't even poetry if you think about it, none of that gay Romantic spiel about how hard my dick is for nature and guys. i mean, he totally subverts that percy shelley business about annihilating yourself in nature and all of that negative capability crap. whoa, i'm so divergent from my main point right now. i hope harper doesn't give me a D on this paper, haha. psyche, you can lick my nuts, douche. anyway, back to eliot. he's like the modern seer who's bringing together the myths of all ages, or like that tight-ass pastor who gives really dry sermons at your presby church, haha. shit, my girl's waking up and her foot is totally soft-pedaling on my meat. whoa! bros, i've got to answer the call, haha. don't wait up on me.
arghefduuuuthyrgnrbnroqrughrvnjfe;ghrugfhrjgnclerwtkut!!
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