Passion

I hate writing the word fuck. I could say it all day every day, in every paragraph and even multiple times per sentence if I had to, but writing it just feels so wrong and dirty. Fuck is just such a raw word, it's carried almost entirely by the emotion put behind it. It's the word that comes out when you're not even thinking of words anymore. When you stub your toe you yell "fuck," when you absolutely despise someone you don't wish them a very slow Chinese water torture, you tell them to go fuck themselves, and when you listen to that perfect song for the first time in 15 years, it's only most likely you'll let out a long sigh of melancholic "fuuuck."

Sometimes there's no word to substitute it. Which is why yesterday, as I finished writing my first ever screenplay, I mentioned to nobody but myself how much I fucking love writing. I'm not even that great. I'm not that bad, but I could be better. I won't be winning an award. I left imperfections because they felt organic. All I can think of after this point is how much I fucking love writing. Not passionately love, it's so much more. Not even blindly, madly, deeply, as cliche and near perfect as it would be. Fucking love is the only way it feels right to say it. Maybe because the wound it's left me is still so fresh. Maybe it's because I just saw a peak of my imaginative side without restrictions. No longer thinking I need visual aid, or to satisfy someone, or to impress anybody. I felt a whole world come to life through my fingertips for the first time, and it was like a lifetime's work of writing about all the passion artists put into music in one tiny little digital report. I won't stop doing that, I can't. I've already felt what a lifetime's work of it feels like. Even if it remains a hobby for the rest of my life, stopping would be a dagger to my fucking heart. But I feel the ceaseless need to write more. To write for me, and for others who see things like I do. Maybe not always screenplays, but fuck, I am definitely doing that again.

Maybe I'll try one of these book writing challenges. Maybe I'll poke around and find an artist to write a webcomic with me. I have to try as many mediums as possible to see which one feels like the most lifetimes of amazing work, so I can live my life a million times over through passion.

I get it. Money is important.

I'm pissed. I am fully aware everyone's entitled to their own opinion, that's great and all, but so many people have such fucking terrible ideas coursing through their grey matter that I have to wonder what honestly drives them. The case I was presented with earlier was a simple one, that someone who was involved in a business for longer should retire so that younger newcomers could keep their job. Anyone having to lose their job for any reason other than doing a bad one upsets me, but that's not what grinds my motherfucking gears.

What really truly pisses me off are comments like: "He would've kept his job if this old 60 year old would retire. Fucking greedy people." "He Should retire by then."

Or just go burn somewhere in a corner

Now using my admittedly limited psychological knowledge on the reason people would think this, I think of the American dream. The dream being to make money during your youth, then grow old and use money you've put away to survive and enjoy life. It's similar thinking that states as soon as you finish high school, before you've mentally matured, you should pick a major and study your ass off for something that you might hate but will definitely make you money. This means that in today's case, this fucking epic man of a 60 year old was perfectly capable of living the American dream. He's getting negative attention because that's not his dream. What's so wrong with doing what you love until you can? Until this "old" man has arthritis on his fingers, until his legs give out, until he is actually handicapped. Why should anybody stop him from waking up in the morning and doing something he loves? What fucked up mentality does it take to think that age as a number is enough of a reason to give up your passion and make way for the youth which, in my very personal experience just aren't as good at labor as before.

We didn't need to label food as organic before because we had hard working farmers. Doctors would check your tongue, your eyes, and personally hear your heart before prescribing you anything. Cars were built to last. I see cars from the '70s every once in a while. You think you'll be seeing a 2008 Corolla in 2044?

I get it. Money is important. I see why people prioritize it over what they love. I see how people can find any excuse necessary and pin their hard times on that. I just think there's better ways to cope, especially ways that don't have to piss me right the fuck off.

I won a box of diabetes

November 27, 2014, I received Mel's package in the mail which contained a bag of Christmas chocolates, a box of Zingers, and a box of Twinkies. The chocolates would have been the death of me if I were that allergic to nuts. Instead, the melted peanut butter pooplets were devoured. This was the start, I won a box of diabetes.

Actual photograph of a "Christmas tree shaped Reese's Cup"

Scared of the potential addiction the Hostess boxes would bring, I waited. It wasn't until December 10th that I started writing this terribly boring journal entry style blog post about my carefully eating the Zingers one by one, because surely those were meant to give the most diabetes at once. The truth is I didn't like the Zingers, and they seemed pretty much like glorified Twinkies. They have what looks and feels like shredded coconut all around them, but it doesn't really taste like coconut. They have "raspberry icing" that tastes like whipped sugar with a tinge of menstrual blood for color, and then you chew it and it's like eating a sponge with whipped cream in the middle. Sorry, Mel. I wasn't impressed.

Dead set on eating the whole box on my own, a bit over a month passed by. I never even opened the Twinkies box, I figured it was just a longer Zinger with less sugar coating. What was there to miss? I slowly ate the sugar coated tampon—Zingers, and I did eventually learn to like them, but it wasn't amazing. I felt nothing but confusion.

And then I got high.

I'm not one to smoke very often. I do, but it's not a thing. So in an unforeseen event, a friend came over and we exercised our recreational rights before my realizing I had half a box of Zingers left and all the appetite in the world.

The raspberry taste was so clear, the "coconut" shreds were the perfect textural addition to the spongy goodness. I was happy. But only about as happy as I am when I wake up after a party without a hangover. It's pleasant, but soon forgotten. It was with blind faith that I trusted the food gods as I opened the Twinkies up and unwrapped one golden chemically induced sponge cake.

Proof of existence

Let me just say, there is a science— there is a mother fucking science to eating a Twinkie. One end contains more cream filling than the other, and just by looking at the bottom you can tell which end that is. That end goes first into the mouth, and unless you want to waste the taste of glory oozing down your throat, upon entering that first section into your vocal cavity you must shove the rest of it inside. The cream will dampen the rest of the cake, and the experience can be completed. If you do not look like a blowfish, you are doing something wrong. I would recommend trying again, practice makes perfect.

After learning how to perfectly blow a Twinkie, I realized at the pace I was going I really would give myself the diabetes I've worked so hard not to fall under. I stopped learning the science of Twinkies with two Twinks left to spare. I ate one the following day, and it was good, but it wasn't glory. I still have one left, it's been months.

I think I'll go eat it right now.

The Beyonce Infatuation

When I was little, watching TV and such, it was inevitable to stare at the mainstream right in the eye and take things in. I learned of Destiny's Child at an early enough age where I could be pulled into the music, terrible I know. But if anything stuck with me, it was the girls.

Now Beyonce may be on today's title, and she's gorgeous and all, but my preference was Kelly Rowland. I mean, just look at her. What is there not to like? Flawless copper skin tone, beautiful smile (when it's genuine) and that misty look. I could just bask in it as she sings herself a soothing jazz standard. I'll make a cup'a and light the candles. Her and me were meant to be. Kelly, if you read this, I won't deny your affections.

She's also got a solid nose.

Source

That's a D4 analysis right there. The elf nose bulb is usually more common for fairer skinned beings. It's usually a wonderful addition to a woman, but she's got it on a fairly wide nostril base. The result is a nose that looks different depending on the angle. I mean come on, was I not supposed to feast my eyes when she came up? Solid 8/10 nose right there.

Beyonce has a real pretty nose too. It's just more common. Maybe a 7/10, but the rest of her face really has a lot to do with it. Beyonce was second place for me, but a clear first for many. A few days ago, a friend made it clear that he was one of those many. While overall I used to find her attractive, I don't anymore. It's not the age or the music. She'll age gracefully, she's a very talented human being, and I would very much enjoy a lover with her vocal possibilities. No, the reason she's not that attractive to me anymore is because of Jay-Z.

As I told my friend, I saw his face. Bewilderment. He just stared and turned his face into a big old wrinkly mess— think Mother Theresa's ass. I knew what he was thinking. "Bro, come on. He's an ugly mofo, if she'll get with him she'll get with anybody. We're clear winners, all we have to do is show some charisma.." so before he even opened his mouth I went on with my reasons. I didn't need to mention the fact that he's a lyrical genius and that hence, his wow factor is significantly increased. I didn't have to mention the fact that he's got more money than I even want to make. I didn't even mention the fact that he's probably a socially friendly, all-around cool guy when he steps away from the mic.

Here's my problem. Imagine the guy. Imagine those thick lips, the bulging fish eyes, the relatively smaller-than-average scalp. Now try and forget the fact that he's a highly respected world famous rapper. Now place him in a room with a blonde bimbo and a shaky cameraman who's way too fucking obnoxious to have a job other than right there at that moment. He's probably gonna say something like "Oh honey, you're not ready for this" followed by some stupid chuckle. It's during that chuckle that he realizes he's not even funny; his world shattering. This is besides the point.

Jay-Z is that one awkward black guy in the porno with the giant horse cock. He fits the criteria. It's between the look, the slur, and the seemingly slow attitude. Jay's that one stud us males think we want to be until we can't fit into any cavity. You can disagree if you like. You also know that by doing so you'll only be lying to yourself.

SOURCE!

But why does it matter? Because I can't compete. To be with someone as long as Beyonce's been with Jay here? I'm not worried about the gaping open black hole between her legs, I'm worried about my performance. I wouldn't want to have to picture that fuckin' boa while I'm doing the deed. Not that I should be, but the gaping black hole wouldn't give me another option. It will create the thought.

Is Beyonce beautiful? Absolutely. But to be married to this guy for as long as she has been means that even if they did become unhappy at some point, and even if I did get the chance, there'd be no way for me to feel comfortable. That's assuming I'd get the chance to compete after being sucked into another universe.

As for my friend, I think he'll keep his infatuations with Mila Kunis. Sorry bro.

Give Me a Disease

I don't support heart attacks. Or diabetes. And only on an occasional basis, cancer, and only because it's pretty fucking unavoidable. We get cancer on our ice, booty munch, if you wanna avoid cancer live the vegan life up in the Himalayas and—

I'm getting carried away.

I would never buy diabetes, but I'd let you give me some. And maybe, as you give me some, we can help someone else. Someone with needs. And no, fuck feeding the poor. This is way more important than that. Fuck cancer patients, AIDS epidemics, or just people who don't have clean water either. We're talking about real needs here, we're talking about problems we can solve, problems like Mel's about 50,000 views shy of 200,000, and some 18 followers shy of 400 followers, and this shit is about as serious as the lube for your first anal experience. Try not to shit your pants over how fucking terrifyingly serious that is. Try not to shit your pants because you have a gaping wide asshole now, either.

If you go to Mel's blog here and leave a comment stating that I, D4 have sent you, she might send me a Twinkie. She obviously wants my death, I tell you. But that's nothing, because I'll make that sugary slut suck me off. Where's your cream filling now, you Twinkie bitch?

Source

That's when all hell breaks loose and I deep fry that shit. You syphils swallowing ass-cunts don't know? Apparently deep fried Twinkies is the only sure fire way of kick starting your inevitable string of physical diseases. We all know the mental ones have already gone too far for me anyway; it's time.

So if you have any heart at all, you'll finish the job on me. Earn me another chance at winning a Twinkie. Go to this particular page on her blog, and just.. you know. Say I sent you.

You might end up getting the Twinkie for all I know.

Who am I even writing to?

Go to bed, kid.

Source

Paul's Cereal

I don't like people. Okay, it's not that bad. I don't like people when I'm not around. I can't see what they're doing, I don't know what their actions are. I can't monitor. I lose control.

It's not that I care what they do. Usually it doesn't even involve me, but on those occasions where someone wants to be at my home while I'm not there, or when I'm showering, or before I wake up (never giving anyone keys to my house again).. there's just reason for me to worry.

It might seem paranoid, but it's justified.

Like the other day, I was gonna go out clubbing with my friends. I specifically said I'd be ready at 9:30, but this one imbecile came for me at 8:20.

"I have to shower.." I whispered.

"It's okay, I'll just wait and watch TV or something" was his response. The sly dog.

I was hesitant, I didn't like the situation but what was I supposed to do? Shoo him away? I just nodded my head and went in for my shower.

But what was he doing while I showered? Was he really watching the crap on my basic cable, or was he doing something worse? Something I wouldn't like. Something he wouldn't be able to tell me, so at the same time something I would never know about.

I'd rub shampoo on my hair and think. Maybe he's spitting on my socks. Maybe scratching my DVD's with his keys. Or mayb-

Maybe he's fucking my cereal.

Before getting out of my room I took the time to draw a few illustrations of what my friend was probably doing. That way I'd get to show him that I knew, and when his eyes open in fear he can know that I know he betrayed me.

But you've also gotta give it to him, it's a genius idea. I'll be out for at least a couple of hours with him, when I come back the semen will have dried out and when I add milk to the cereal I'll never notice any of the crust. It'll all mush down.

I paid $7 for that cereal too. Terrible.

He just laughed at me. It's confusing, because at this point he should be surprised I caught on. It's not even nervous laughter, it's roaring. Who does this cereal fetishist think he is? He ruined my cereal, it was expensive. I wasn't even halfway done with it.

As D4, I'm actually quite proud of the box of cereal I drew

And what's worse, she probably liked it too. Oh I know her well, with her arrogant gluten free rings and her delicious cinnamon spices. She was probably all over him before I even stepped foot into the shower, and yet he denies me of his truth. Almost as if I didn't have all the evidence I needed right there on my hand! I drew it a mere 4 minutes ago, the blood is still wet on his hands. I can smell it.

He finally started realizing that I knew when I started shouting and went to look for the cereal box myself. I saw his eyes widen as I opened the cabinet and saw that he placed her exactly the same way I did. Sneaky.

"Paul, stop being so paranoid!" He yelled at me. In my own house, after sleeping with my cereal.

I took the box and tossed it into the garbage, ordered him to either fess up or leave right this instant, and the coward left. I'll never trust him in my house again, and for good reason too. Forget about the taste and consistency, think about the germs! Some nerve.

I didn't go out clubbing that night. I did however run out to the supermarket and get me some cereal. It was cheaper this time. She looks faithful.

Kung Fu

Today's story revolved around a child. An adorable little 4 year old that only wanted to impress the superior beings that are called adults. Let's call him David Force. Yeah, that works. Little David Force.

He woke up early this morning. Stretching in bed, opening his eyes and letting ideas roam through his mind. Improvisation isn't even necessary when you're 4 years old and have an imagination as active as a prostitute's sex life. He knew what he wanted to do, and he was happy with this idea.

This is what a happy young David Force looks like.

The poor little thing picked up his magic marker and paint set and headed straight for his mother's mirror, which was inconveniently placed in her room. This was fine, he managed to wake up without her noticing and so he got into her room without her noticing either.

Finally at his destination, he was only about 15 minutes away from success. He looked straight ahead at the mirror, picked up a yellow magic marker, and got straight to work.

15 minutes later he was done. He slid out of his parents' room and headed straight through the hall in the hopes of finding someone to appreciate his masterpiece. And then his mommy walked her way up to the hall and saw his face.

And mommy was not pleased. Quite the opposite, her eyes lit up for half a second before blinking a few times and calming down.

The shock left her with no words for a little while. Stutters, many blinks and a few deep breaths later, she managed to cross her arms and form a coherent sentence.

And little David knew exactly why he did it. It all made perfect sense in his mind, so he didn't even hesitate to answer.

"Because Kung Fu"

She just stared at him blankly, probably already contemplating how she could go so wrong so fast. He was only 4. And kung fu? Really? All this and much more could be seen in her eyes.

"What do you mean, kung fu?!" slipped out of her mouth. Poor little David, with much less confidence than before started to whisper.

"BecauseofthekungfumoviemommyI'msorry"

But he wasn't sorry yet. This was something she couldn't handle on her own, she didn't know what to do. She tried to get him to explain, but he was obviously in the mood for jokes. So she took him outside to explain himself to his father.

His dad wasn't alone, he was taking a break from adult-man-work outside with his creepy cock-eyed cousin. They both just stared at the poor little thing, and there to break silence was the poor kid's mom.

"Tell them what you just did"

"....kungfu...."

My inner 12 year old drew this.

The roaring laughter that came from these two adults would be enough for poor little David Force to reject anything kung fu related for years to come.

But the story doesn't end here! It's important to know the roots of little David's thoughts.

See, a week before this whole thing David saw a movie. Or rather, he saw the first 5 minutes of a movie, followed by bits and pieces whenever he woke up. This movie was something about To Wong Foo, which was easily switched in his mind with kung fu. He would later find out what men in drag were.

Kung fu was something David's dad was into. Anything about the martial arts, it was part of the rainbow of subjects that this guy couldn't stop talking about, so naturally, little David wanted something to do with this amazing kung fu stuff.

It all makes sense in the end, doesn't it?

Also, this totally wasn't based on true events or anything. Come on and stuff. Geeze.

A legitimate question

And not that I'm expecting all of you (or any) to honestly answer, but I'll put it out there anyway.

A while ago I was having a chat with a lady friend. Let's call her Amanda. Now me and Amanda have known each other for so long that we can be pretty excessively open with our thoughts and opinions. It's a good thing, it means we're open enough to talk about things like when her mother was looking at genital piercings. I let her know that her dad might be getting one soon in order to satisfy his curious wife; and so on and so forth until we came to the following scenario.

Now, I came up with this while talking to a hetero female, so it applies to hetero/bi females and gay males. I'll give the lesbian and hetero male twist after I'm done with the original, so don't worry. You all apply.

You wake up. You're in the arms of prince charming, literally all you physically want in a guy. You smile, of course, because he's looking at your eyes so tenderly. The bed still smells of the amazing sex you had last night, and the comfort of his arms firm around you is the only thing keeping you from drifting to another moment. This is a guy you've been living with for 6 months without things completely falling apart, things are oddly better than you'd expect them to be, too, so you want this to work.


He leans forward, kisses your forehead, and with those tender and hesitant eyes he asks:

"Can I fuck your armpit?"

Uh, uhm, er

What the fuck do you say? How do you respond to this? Yes, that IS the question.


NOW, some things you should know that me and Amanda were already aware of:

There are such people who enjoy sticking their dicks in an armpit, and having the arm close on the phallus as they hump away. There are also people who who find armpits so arousing that the sight of them could make them masturbate vigorously until they inseminate it. Think of a money shot. Pit shot. Look this shit up, it's hilarious.

When "prince charming" asks for armpit sex, you don't know which of these two he wants. I want the initial reaction, be it yes, no, depends on my mood, or I'd have to have a talk with him first.

Amanda said it would be as bad as anal sex, so no. I've gotten a few opinions on this matter, asking around, and it really seems like the overall answer is a tie. This means your opinions count.

And for the rest  of you with dickless partners out there, there is indeed a female-on-pit option. Unfortunately, I'm not sure a female could have sex with an armpit in more ways than grinding. I've yet to find proper female armpit fetish videos. If you have some, let me know.


Anyway, pretty much this whole thing gets inverted-  there's the woman of your dreams and you wake up with her in your arms, puppy dog eyeing you right before she asks if she can grind your armpit until she has pleased  herself.

What to fucking do.

Now, you could not answer, which is fine. There's no restrictions as to who reads this blog, and maybe you'll have a job in the future with a boss that has a thing against allowing your partner to fuck your armpit. You could post anonymously! But still I mean, who knows, there's a dozen of these excuses on why not to give your opinion.

Not that I'm insinuating anything.

For those of you with excuses, can you possibly imagine other ways a woman could please herself using only/mainly an armpit?

It's for a good cause. You could be inventing someone's fetish before it's even done, and become a revolutionary in the world of armpit sex. That's something to tell the grand kids in the future, innit?