the slutty farm hand
God, I look fucking awesome today. Granted, I’m the only one who thinks so judging by how many proposals I’ve gotten, but that’s probably for the best.
So, on August 5, 2010, it wears a hair tie to hold as much of its receding, thinning, unwashed auburn hair as the fates allow. The pants are “women’s,” stretchy brown cords which whimsically fulfill its cross-dressing claims, and the t-shirt, well daddy made/gave us that. It’s a white t-shirt with the album cover from King Crimson’s In the Court of the Crimson King, but with the sleeves cut off and one of its first custom-fitted take-ins. Yeah, it sews, sows, and so’s.
The lid is a camouflaged Reinke hat with the name covered up with a distress-flag it got from an old housemate’s rent-a-cop uniform. The hat also has patches from the hunter’s safety course it passed (age 12) and the foundry where it spent two summers (age 18-19, and that complex is less than a mile from its current location). I’d say it spent this time “away from its friends,” but apparently, it never had any friends. Such is the findings of the most recent evidence, anyway. It doesn’t care.
Same glasses it’s worn for years, and the same pair of chacos (brand whore!) it’s had since college. They’ve been re-soled, what, 3 times now? Maybe only two. Again, it doesn’t care.
It has referred to itself as an “ethical” slut, but that term implies some sort of lacking ethics in sluttiness. That’s stupid. Lying is unethical. If you’re honest with people, well, they just won’t let you touch them. Again, recent evidence, not a predicter of future performance, etc, etc, etc. Every second you deny its recompensation for the years of agonizing torture you put it through, it waits patiently.
There’s a show tonight, a punk/grind show (its favorite). It wonders to itself whether it will go, let alone why… Loud noises, dark spaces, little sweaty bodies that are entirely compatible with its own meatbot. That’s one of its biggest “regrets” now, if it has any. That you don’t see the wonder of this efficiently plant-fed, poison-free body. It’s so beautiful it makes me want to cry. Slender and strong, graceful as a crane. Forged, flogged, and flung about, wrecklessly abandoned. It’s right there, waiting, dancing, listening, watching. It wants to share everything with you. The LazyAssWasteoid show is on 24x7x365, fucktards.
Ok, fine. Nobody wants it broke? Porn it is. We tape our deeds as evidence, as proof. We sell ‘em if we gotta eat. We split the proceeds equally. This is a business proposal, an open offer. I’m assuming the only oyns (female ones? Never mind.) who might even be interested have already shown their beautiful little bodies to the world over the ‘net. That’s exactly the point.
I don’t even remember how long it’s been since my last orgasm. It’s been a few weeks, three or four even, maybe? It’s been well over a year since I’ve had any relevant human contact, too. Why the fuck do you think it’s stoned all the time? Trust me, when nobody wants it, you’re all much better off that way. The fact that it’s taking its meds regularly is the only think keeping you/it alive. It’s a suicide girl with a penis, bitches.
Which brings me to another “point.”
Yes, I’m running for “president” of the United States. I have been my entire life, and I will be for my entire life. I hold no parties, theologies, or pragmatic approaches “sacred,” I don’t give a flying fuck about money or my own personal survival, and I will not back down. I’ve been digging through the shit you fuckers call an education for my entire life, and the only time I found any truth was when I started doing the opposite of what the machine told me to do. So, why “run” for “president”? I’m not getting on any ballots, I’m not setting up a “campaign” website, getting “volunteers” or taking polls on the issues. I’ll re-write the entire fucking planetary algorithm. In my sleep. Write me in, oh brain dead sheeples. No for-profit “news” entity is ever going to pick up any stories about me (unless they make shit up), and I will not cooperate with their ad-driven selling-retards-poisonous-shit-they-don’t-need. No. You want to make a campaign contribution? Suck my dick.
I guess that’s all I wanted to say today.
p.s. I don’t try to be terrifying. If that happens, it’s probably just a defense mechanism resulting from 33 years of social and physical isolation. It’s not like you’re any different.