Shopping Socked In

L'affaire Madness-off. I'm sore myself from your sore spot. There's your love letter. I want to talk about the game and how fuck fucked it all is, get off on humping the yoga ball of my fake self satisfaction, sadness before, during and after. So many crushed peons. I declined. She's my life and she'll never know, not really, because I'm and my words are weak, skin the only speech, come through the fog for me; I'm your fag. What're services Mommy?