Monday, May 14, 2018

The worm-cock boy

As we see, Jennifer received a comment from an idiot that she used to know. We wrote this as a result.

The terrible tale of the worm-cock boy
 

Even Baudelaire couldn’t write Seasons in Hell as cruelly as our periods of mockery of you, Mr. William French. My husband is hugely fond of my narratives about your suicidal plans – the slaughter of your pets, followed by your own death in the conflagration that destroys your house. Sadly, you were always too much of a pussy to go through with it. It sickens me that I ever knew a pseudo-intellectual nobody like you, so slow to grasp everything to do with the academic, things that clever people think & do. He belongs to the category that my husband calls “ordinary people”.
 

I had forgotten you, then receive bizarre & retarded emails talking about your mental health. I am married to a real man, hung like a fucking horse, I bet you’d like his cock in you, though he would be sadly obliged to kick your fucking teeth down your throat. I remember your dream of being an artist, collage and photography. One day, they will have dictionaries illustrating failure, and there you’ll be. Sorry that I can’t remember more to abuse you about; it just wasn’t that memorable or important to me.
 

I am better than you, shithead. You thought I wanted your money, but that is obviously all you had to offer, you mean nothing to me. By all means go on reading my pieces, other people do & we like to think of all the smaller gentlemen who are mortified by the fact that I finally came with a man. You don’t like women, except when you dress up like one. Now there’s nothing wrong with trannies, but there’s something sad about secretive trannies who dress up and wear their dead mother’s lipstick.
 

Maybe next time you shove an object down your urethra you will think of me being banged shitless in another country and laughing at your sad plight. I don’t think of you when I fuck though, it’s the huge cock that fills me up in every sense.
 

Dear me, in how many places will I be obliged to block you. I suppose little Billy is still in love with me, or so desperately lonely that he needs someone to talk to at all costs. I’ve been there, but I’m feeling great now, so i honestly couldn’t care less.
 

As we see, Jennifer dislikes all the exes who treated her shabbily. She and I change voices as we see fit, we are one authorial voice except insofar as we aren’t, if and when we see fit.
 

This one was scarcely an ex, just an engagement with a mentally ill French person, entered into when I myself was mentally ill; maybe I wanted to save the entailment on the cottage, buy coke or whatever, who cares. Otherwise i would never have had anything to do with this subhuman cocksucker. We never even fucked.

So Jennifer is cross. it will go over. She saw his attempt to comment on her blog as I showered after a tremendous fuck. Soon we shall fuck again - poor French “William”, forgotten again – where is last year’s snow?