The Death Grip of Pussylips Is Remarkable:

You know I try to force myself to write. I find a mood that I would usually see fit to type at least a couple pages of work, but lately that has been a foreign occurrence. With the recent collapse of my computer’s memory I have many revamps, reissues, and other re-words to shell out. The thing is, I can’t do it. I can’t type a story. Instead, I get stuck with typing these pathetic little editorials that no one is ever gonna read. Here I am, fifteen years old, striving to be a writer, and I am sitting here typing a fucking note to an audience that doesn’t exist.

            I am pathetic.

            I could be doing something right now. I could be watching Noises Off for the eightieth, time, or, god forbid, getting some fucking sleep. Maybe, just maybe, I might actually type something with credible value of entertainment. Why can’t I write more Outside’s or Statement’s? I am completely capable. I have written a lot of stories; some of ‘em are actually readable.

            I don’t know what I am complaining about though, really. I have been begging to write some trashy gore-filled vampire stories like seventh grade, but here lately I have been caught up on this pussy bullshit. Me, Nicholas Motherfucking Unthank, is writing romance? What the fuck is wrong with me? What happened to evil? What happened to Johnathan, Lucas, and William? William Fucking Nietsmmar: the evil lupine from hell!

            No, I have to write some goddamn bleeding heart story about Nick and Paige and how pathetic his quest for the girl he loves truly is.

            I blame the vagina.

            It has caused man nothing but pain for years. Sure, it can be fun, but that is really the jaws of Cerberus there. Women wrap that damn thing around us and never let us out. The death grip of pussylips is remarkable. Can you, and this is a question for all the guys and lesbians out there, remember the first time you saw a vagina? Really? Sure you were aroused at first, or disgusted, but, for the guys anyway, that pretty much has the same stimuli, one is just messier in the end.

            Anyway, back to the subject at hand-what was it again? –Oh yeah, writing. Anyway, ever since I first discovered this wondrous amusement one can get from the happyhole, or it’s holders for the moment, I stopped my B-movie style writing and adopted a newer teen love sort of technique. First it started as a suicide story, with a bit of romance wrapped around, and that was my best work, until, I found a true inspiration, Paige.

            When I met Paige, I truly hit my point of no return of unrealistic writing. I immediately acquired my geek-goes-for-girl mush fest bullshit storytelling. It disgusts me, and I am sure, you, as the reader, is pretty fucking sick of it as well. Where is the decapitation, you ask? What happened the bloody slaughters, you cry? Well, they left with the bitch that took my heart. It’s nothing but love-lost stories from here on out boys and girls.