I wonder if it is likely that I’m going to frollick about on this dirty festering muddball until I’m too old and ugly to do so and then procure myself a kalishnakov automatic rifle and make for the Repulican National Convention with murder boiling over in my veins!?
Thoughts of committing myslef to toil and the raising of a brood and the inevitable “letting down of” a potential life mate are depressing indeed. Depressing enough in fact, as to constantly interrupt my frollicking ways and forfeit my days to a domestic shadow of their once glorious debauchery.
The passsage from youth to the dreadful state of mid-twentyhood is akin to a plump and juice festooned grape being sucked dry by an as of yet unidentified form of tropical grape loving fruit fly with a bulbous veiny body which contrasts itself so perfectly in its ugliness to the once smooth and stretched skin of the grape. Tantamount to that grape do I feel life encroaching upon my plump young dumb and full o’ cum lifestyle.