Bitchfaces. Y’all. Sloppy hos in the back row whispering amongst yourselves, how is the entire lot of y’all?
That’s fantastic. Glad to hear it. Sure wish I could say the same. No can do, though, and here’s why.
We’ve got some things being misconstrued. Some parts of the things I say and do are being taken all the fucking way out of context. I’d venture to say, someone has me all of the way fucked up.
So, much to your viewing pleasure, we’re going to have a quick refresher class on report, or as I like to call it, how not to get punched in your fucking throat talking to me. Would it be okay with y’all now if I digress?
Outstanding.
I am many things, few of them torqued down to the proper PSI, but that’s of no consequence in this matter. I’m an author, an advocate, columnist, part time Antihero, and even a pretty decent rapper. None of these are late additions, I have been all this shit some years now.
I’ve been here giving semi-solid advice for nearly five years, been bullshitting with some of y’all a bit longer. It’s pretty evident what I’m about. You be cool with me, I will do the same in return.
I don’t write about anything that takes place behind the door to my bedroom or y’alls, it isn’t my business the type of party y’all having over to the house. My lame ass paisley printed sheets are not y’all business either, because two-way street and what have you.
That has never been up for debate, I’ve not once waivered on it, and it’s not changing today. Yet, every so often, I get what I like to call “nastygrams” or “who the fuck is off their meds” letters. Typically in well-formatted email messages, but not always. Because sometimes it just isn’t creepy the fuck enough.
That’s a lie. It’s always creepy as fuck when someone stomps my fucking boundaries and makes me feel uncomfortable as fuck when I’m literally just doing my job.
I tell y’all stories, sometimes about me, sometimes about random fuckery or true crime, or safety for women, or whatever. Occasionally, I talk about someone I’m seeing, or no longer seeing, more accurately, but I’m not a fetish writer, because my idea of a fetish is hand mopping the kitchen to some 90’s R&B.
Lame ain’t just for breakfast anymore y’all. I’m having it fresh outta the wrapper all day, every day.
I tell myself when I get the scary shit that everyone needs an outlet, and since I’m here, I’m probably just the first person in your contact list. I will continue to convince myself of that, even as I write this. However, I am a real person, and this is my real life. My real dog. My real shenanigans.
When you tell me in your well-formatted email message you wish to harm me, or have inappropriate physical contact with me, it makes me want to respond in a very fucking hype fashion. Um, think fucking bees in my bonnet. I’m told that isn’t the best approach in this circumstance, however, your feelings aren’t very high on my list of shit to give a fuck about today.
So, please note, I will block you on every platform, and you will have to do so much additional creeping in order to act like a total fucking creep, and perhaps you’d like to weigh your time constraints against your sociopathy first. Again, real person here, who isn’t showing up on your job to stand on the loading dock beside your forklift and yell kinkisms while I flash you as you’re just trying to load the fucking 53-footer and clock out.
It can get a little hectic with all that additional sexual deviancy in the mix. Like additional was even necessary.
It wasn’t.
That’s all I have. I appreciate those of you who read and correspond with me. You’re the fucking bees’ knees. But if you want to write about anything above the bees’ knees, please, go find yourself a sex writer, or OnlyFans girl, because I will only ask nicely once.
Love.
Q
Hmm... Bees in bonnets you say?
Well Dear, I've been accused of having flying monkeys packing pitchforks and .40s in mine. I think it's a fair accusation though because, after all, I am an OG Right And Proper Asswhole. I guess it's that Neutral Good orientation we have that gets would be Shitweasels riled.
I mean we seem peaceful sorts, right up until someone jumps at us.. then it's all about pitchforks and hogs and trying to not catch us a case.
If it makes you feel any better I had one nutter get all big and fluffy on a social site. I told him what time it was and the Dingle Fritz threatened to come visit me.
I told him to come ahead, and not to worry about the dog because I'm good for 70 yards in the black on iron sights, and my neighbor is good for 30 with his 44 hog leg (He's an old Jareen Gunny)
All that said, I pity the fool jumping at you. You got friends who know things, and I'm willing to bet hard cash your Marine knows more than I, and would take a very dim view of someone stepping up with such silliness, were word to make it's way to him.
You would think anyone reading your stuff, should have a pretty good idea of who you are. Probably some pimply faced incel, living in his mama's spare trailer bedroom to be this level of stupid. Oh, and my eyesight isn't what it used to be, so this old grunt just reloads.