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Holy Molar
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My Saturday Night Fever Turned into a Sunday Morning Rash
I'm turned off.
That repression bit's jazzercized my provocative thesis：Your ass is grass!
In fact you're dead all ready, jerk off!
Those mental mechanisms are just rusty cars traffic gridlocked in yourself-dazzling presumptuosness.
Yawn!
Isn't it just so weird?
Fascinating.
The more you ask the less I know.
Ancient functions get reprogrammed.
Tomorrow sex is just a stab for nostalgia and agendas for the future are just a twitch to rumble arousal hopes surpass audience attendance: The fees of ears for fucking.
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