The psyche is formed through assimilating physical compliments. She was given less compliments than the other one. Her soul was stronger. The other one’s soul was abjectly unrousing to my platonic attraction of her. Despite this, I feel more towards her. Feel more, towards a vapid piece of flesh. And the truly beautiful one: my feelings are less acute. To find the well-rounded women, is a grueling numbers game; one that risks becoming a jaded asshole who finds no joy in life.
Really, I’m mad I forgot her name- twice. I’m unabashed, but still feel sorry; feel sorry for her feeling bad. Taking responsibility for an imperfect memory is stupid. She couldn’t empathize with my imperfection. I feel indignant and resent this girl. This is why I hate women; but I unfortunately love them too. This is the problem.
It was her fault; she was wearing fish nets. Don’t wear this around me. I imagine a gold path leading to the inguinal, where a warm moist cunt is ready to console my sexless rabo. I want to run my hand from her sural and crural, going up to her popliteal and patellar, and finally making my way to the inguinal. There is something to say about making sexual things all too sexual.
Accentuation is a form of altering someone else’s reality; like me looking at a person as a piece of meat to jam my rod into. Islam was on to something. Ostensibly, Islam took it too far in the other direction. 1940’s America was the perfect medium. As old man Bill says, these girls leave nothing up to the imagination. Skirts would be nice.
I don’t care about changing the female’s reality; philosophizing is fun, and girls interest me, so there you have the perception of a misogynist. I’m not. Simply, a frustrated and happy romantic clearing up the obfuscated world through the art of writing. Lucidity please.
Sublimation for My Turmoil 