After watching (almost) the whole thing and wondering where they got all those lesbians with deep voices and bad facial hair . . .
I find that my testosterone count has dropped to suicidal levels.
And speaking of suicide, my sperm just did.
I feel the need to . . . to . . . dust while embracing the anti-commercial coercion of my sacred form.
Cali Peg's poetry makes sense to me now, an exuberant blushing of the juicy intermingling within respect.
I now must . . . must . . . must . . .
pee sitting down.