Recently, I made contact with a woman who is, like myself, a living mascot for an orgiastic shock-rock band. She goes by the name of Titty Bear. I had been told she looked a lot like me, and I saw some photos, but you never can tell with these photos these days.
When I transform into Scumbalina the Porn Fairy for a performance with Gays in the Military, I sprout butterfly wings, an adorable mask and electrical tape on my deliciously huge and meaty nipples. When Titty Bear performs with Human Aftertaste, she grows furry ears and paws, electrical tape on her nipples (!) and even a huge, rubber penis that juts out from her endlessly kissable crotch.
Despite the costuming similarities, how could someone share my siren-like beauty? It is hard to even begin to wrap my mind around. Then it happened. I went to a seedy bar to see if I could get a job as a seedy waitress and SURPRISE! Titty Bear's band was playing!
So I approached her, and her delicate, rose-like gorgeousness sent an electric shock through me. It was like looking into a mirror.
For a moment, I thought that maybe Titty Bear might even be a bit more perfect than I am because her chin was more defined, but when she told me that the first part of her body she had issues with was her chin, I was smitten. Utterly and forever. In the ultimate act of narcissism, I must make love to and mate with the Titty Bear for the rest of my life.
I put my thoughts and feelings into a letter. Here it is:
Dear Titty Bear:
This is quite hard for me to write.
I have never met anyone who simultaneously loved and hated herself so much as I do. On one hand, I am constantly beating myself up over being a big loser crap-turd and having the brains of a monkey that throws his poop at the wall. And even though I am that lacking in the skull, I want a lobotomy.
Having said that, I also love myself more than anyone you will probably ever meet. More than Morrissey even. And whenever I receive a compliment, I won't stop talking about how great I am. And why the hell not? I am fucking great. I have extremely negative traits, but the fact that I am so incredibly gorgeous and my mind is nothing short of genius really turns me on.
You may or may not know that I have talked in the past a lot about wanting to and having sex with many people, most of them monsters, but the truth is that the ultimate person I'd love to be with is myself. Oh, we have so much fun together. Just me, in my room, holding onto my own hand and imagining being in Disneyland, laughing as the fat ladies beat their kids. Those are the happy times for me. I only date people who remind me of myself. The more like me they are, the more I love them. But of course, no one can compare to the one and only. ME.
I had a fantasy for a while, and that was to have a guy fuck me--despite the fact that I love myself, I also love dick (unfortunately)--while he wears a bag over his head with a picture of me eating a big sandwich affixed to it. I tried it a couple of times. It wasn't the best, but it was definitely better than seeing anyone else's ugly-ass mug. When I got a huge paper cut across my chest because of those sturdy brown bags, I realized I had to stop. It was getting hazardous.
All I want is someone to sit down on the couch with me, eat chicken-and-ham sandwiches, take antidepressants, and watch Trading Spouses and Extra. When I saw you in front of me in your bloody bear suit, with your big purple dildo, and your below average-sized breasts and your non-pronounced chin, I knew I had finally found the one--she who I have always been looking for!!! And you have a penis!!! No more paper bags. No more sex with monsters. I would love to spend the rest of my life with you, Titty Bear. I know I am saved now.
It is really not that bizarre. I figure almost everyone masturbates. Isn't that a testament of love to one's self? And usually the best person to get you off is you. I mean, who knows you better? So I don't have to masturbate to photos of my face anymore, or to a mirror. I can masturbate to you. Or we can have crazy bloody AIDS sex with your big long purple dildo (as I know it has been up the AIDS Monkey's derriere).
Sweetest, I have written you a lil poem:
Your body is a garbage dump
where I'd like to pee.
I think I'm in love with you,
because you look like me.
How I hope you like it! I spent all night choosing the right words. Trust me. I wouldn't do such things unless I was absolutely smitten.
Darling, I have never found someone who was so close in appearance to myself. Please marry me and maybe we can make babies that look like miniature girls with small boobs and no chins.
All of My Love,
Lil Princess.
Let’s all hope that she will love it so that my search will finally end . . .
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Monday, February 5, 2007
Beating The Peeping Tom-Toms
There is a type of girl who changes in front of a window. She pretends not to notice that she's doing it, in hopes that there will be some foul, open-mouthed pervert downstairs, working a handful of precum with her name on it. As she does this, she fantasizes that the perv looks like Patrick Swayze getting out of prison, and she hopes that he'll attack her and take her into the alley and fuck her over and over. That way, it won't be her fault so her boyfriend can't be mad, and then everyone will have total pity for her and buy her flowers and give her money and stuff.
That girl is...well, not exactly me, but sort of close to it. I want all that and syphilis, too.
Peeping toms. You have to love them. I do. I have to admit I've looked into a window or two hoping to see some naked 360-pound man staunchly masturbating to some crinkled up old photo of Al Pacino from Cruising that he's holding in his fist. I've even been to apartment complexes and walked around looking for open windows. All to no avail. No one changes in front of their windows anymore, apparently.
So one night I was on eBay and drinking, and looking for cameras, I stumbled upon a Spy-Cam that is the size of a penny. So nice and small...so perfect for me. Suddenly fantasies of all of the amazing footage I could capture with this little eye streamed through my brain. I thought about how maybe I'd stash it somewhere and some fat man would sit his obese ass down, eat a big hoagie, and then promptly jack off to a piece of lettuce, and then a dog would run by and he would kill it and then chop off its nipples and glue them to his body and then the President would come by with his secret service and they would all start suckling and licking his nipples and I would have captured it all on my little pinhole camera. And then I could sell the videos to Geraldo for like six million dollars and live out my dream of getting a lobotomy and being hooked up to a Church's Chicken drip. So much potential this little device has. And all for a mere 5.95!
No more kidding around; I had to have this thing. I got it for so cheap and it was sent to my mother's house. I became the happiest person ever as I ripped open the box and plugged the little shitty eye into the television and a vague image of the room appeared on screen and came barely into focus. Oh, how excited I was!
I woke up one morning in a haze, not unlike many mornings before. When my eyelids finally peeled apart, the first thing I noticed was the little eye. It was pointed at me, and it was hooked up to the TV and VCR. I tried to remember hooking up the contraption, but I could not place it. All I knew was that the night before I had done a lot of boozing, and now all I wanted was strawberry pop. My head was pounding. Then my roommate burst in, holding a tape. I tried to focus.
The previous night oozed slowly back into my foggy brain as my roommate waved the tape at me, beaming with joy. I realized that I'd had a gentleman visitor the night before. It occurred to me then that my roommate had turned the camera around on me and, as a result, he now had a tape of the whole dirty disgusting foul fucking mess.
Instinctively I tried to take the tape but my frail body is no match against his fat girth. He explained to me how good the tape was. I had a hard time believing that he even got me to sign a model release form until I looked in the corner and saw a bunch of official-looking papers that said "model release." They were crinkled up and covered in used condoms, socks, and coffee. Wow. He really had thought of everything.
The whole boondoggle became clear. I realized that there was now a video of me performing heinous acts that I can hardly remember, and that I don't really want to. There are other recordings of my more private moments, but the others I was at least half awake for and I consciously signed model release forms.
This video is genuine. A real live sex tape! That I don't remember. Something like this a girl can cherish for the rest of her life. I can no longer run for public office. My dreams of being Miss USA are now over. I wonder if a person with a sex tape is even allowed to vote. I'm going to have this "dirty little secret" for the rest of my life. When my deformed children are born, I have to constantly worry about the day that they come up to me talking about some tape that so and so told them about.
I wonder how far the tape will get. I can only fantasize. It's so easy now. I still change in front of the window, hoping that perverts will see me, but I can't always be standing in the window naked, I have to eat and watch TV and stuff, and now I know that even when I'm not trying to get perverts to "accidentally" see me naked, there is a tape that they could be watching at any time!
The procedure now is for me to pretend to be upset and act like I would be totally horrified if anyone ever saw it, but deep down, I'm hoping it gets more popular than Star Wars. But I won't tell anyone that.
I think that Paris Hilton and Pam Anderson and the countless other celebrity sluts with sloppy sex tapes are the same way. They love it. And I love it too. It's like having a peeping tom all the time.
That girl is...well, not exactly me, but sort of close to it. I want all that and syphilis, too.
Peeping toms. You have to love them. I do. I have to admit I've looked into a window or two hoping to see some naked 360-pound man staunchly masturbating to some crinkled up old photo of Al Pacino from Cruising that he's holding in his fist. I've even been to apartment complexes and walked around looking for open windows. All to no avail. No one changes in front of their windows anymore, apparently.
So one night I was on eBay and drinking, and looking for cameras, I stumbled upon a Spy-Cam that is the size of a penny. So nice and small...so perfect for me. Suddenly fantasies of all of the amazing footage I could capture with this little eye streamed through my brain. I thought about how maybe I'd stash it somewhere and some fat man would sit his obese ass down, eat a big hoagie, and then promptly jack off to a piece of lettuce, and then a dog would run by and he would kill it and then chop off its nipples and glue them to his body and then the President would come by with his secret service and they would all start suckling and licking his nipples and I would have captured it all on my little pinhole camera. And then I could sell the videos to Geraldo for like six million dollars and live out my dream of getting a lobotomy and being hooked up to a Church's Chicken drip. So much potential this little device has. And all for a mere 5.95!
No more kidding around; I had to have this thing. I got it for so cheap and it was sent to my mother's house. I became the happiest person ever as I ripped open the box and plugged the little shitty eye into the television and a vague image of the room appeared on screen and came barely into focus. Oh, how excited I was!
I woke up one morning in a haze, not unlike many mornings before. When my eyelids finally peeled apart, the first thing I noticed was the little eye. It was pointed at me, and it was hooked up to the TV and VCR. I tried to remember hooking up the contraption, but I could not place it. All I knew was that the night before I had done a lot of boozing, and now all I wanted was strawberry pop. My head was pounding. Then my roommate burst in, holding a tape. I tried to focus.
The previous night oozed slowly back into my foggy brain as my roommate waved the tape at me, beaming with joy. I realized that I'd had a gentleman visitor the night before. It occurred to me then that my roommate had turned the camera around on me and, as a result, he now had a tape of the whole dirty disgusting foul fucking mess.
Instinctively I tried to take the tape but my frail body is no match against his fat girth. He explained to me how good the tape was. I had a hard time believing that he even got me to sign a model release form until I looked in the corner and saw a bunch of official-looking papers that said "model release." They were crinkled up and covered in used condoms, socks, and coffee. Wow. He really had thought of everything.
The whole boondoggle became clear. I realized that there was now a video of me performing heinous acts that I can hardly remember, and that I don't really want to. There are other recordings of my more private moments, but the others I was at least half awake for and I consciously signed model release forms.
This video is genuine. A real live sex tape! That I don't remember. Something like this a girl can cherish for the rest of her life. I can no longer run for public office. My dreams of being Miss USA are now over. I wonder if a person with a sex tape is even allowed to vote. I'm going to have this "dirty little secret" for the rest of my life. When my deformed children are born, I have to constantly worry about the day that they come up to me talking about some tape that so and so told them about.
I wonder how far the tape will get. I can only fantasize. It's so easy now. I still change in front of the window, hoping that perverts will see me, but I can't always be standing in the window naked, I have to eat and watch TV and stuff, and now I know that even when I'm not trying to get perverts to "accidentally" see me naked, there is a tape that they could be watching at any time!
The procedure now is for me to pretend to be upset and act like I would be totally horrified if anyone ever saw it, but deep down, I'm hoping it gets more popular than Star Wars. But I won't tell anyone that.
I think that Paris Hilton and Pam Anderson and the countless other celebrity sluts with sloppy sex tapes are the same way. They love it. And I love it too. It's like having a peeping tom all the time.
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