You couldn’t predict my awkward state. By awkward state, I mean I’m on the fence insane when, I hop the gates to California. I’m off to Vegas. If I cock a waitress, does the AIDs I fucked her vague with, condensed to stay in Vegas?
I'm Ghandi teaching Dhalsim the kick-leg thin-stretch pressing six-X combination. I’m an indexed incarnation of having sick sex, molestation. I have a sick sense of masturbation. Forget my occupation. Just nominate me. I’ll inject Obama, facing, six counts of incarceration. I insist on the operation. Select to embalm. It’s suspense in my palm. When I read it, it tells me to disconnect you from across the nation. Infect biologic rations. It's cross-checked. Some say I'm like Satan, with a pure touch. Imagine the Lochness in a velour tux, causing riots from an ionizing basin. The type of concoction phasing that causes primary caustic flaming. I love reading binary naked.
They call me the ironic machine. Have sex in your Jeep 4x4 with a chick whose lies' are- she's sixteen. On my porch I’m laden. To a mortal state. Where more than often I create a mortar slate. An apex. Distraught equations. Steven Hawkings pacing; breathing: "it's p-h not v" I'm sorry Pheven.
dope shit, my fav parts.
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