A couple more pictures from mine and Jilly’s Valentine’s weekend tryst with Liz and April
Below: Jilly is on top of April’s back (hard to see in this pic) and Liz has a strapless strap on…the kind where she inserts one end into herself and the other end is… pushed into my Jilly, again and again
Above: Jilly feeling Liz inside her, while cuddling April (Liz paused for the picture, she was previously, vigorously, pushing the strap on into Jilly, rocking her back and forth on top of April)
Watching my Jilly with these two other girls was so erotic, so exciting, so hot. I’m turned on again just posting these
A couple more pictures from mine and Jilly’s Valentine’s weekend tryst with Liz and April
Below: Jilly is on top of April’s back (hard to see in this pic) and Liz has a strapless strap on…the kind where she inserts one end into herself and the other end is… pushed into my Jilly, again and again
Above: Jilly feeling Liz inside her, while cuddling April (Liz paused for the picture, she was previously, vigorously, pushing the strap on into Jilly, rocking her back and forth on top of April)
Watching my Jilly with these two other girls was so erotic, so exciting, so hot. I’m turned on again just posting these
I think everyone should make dumb ugly zines and bad music and write shitty books with weird premises and publish them for pay what you will online. I think people should write plays that are only ever intended to be performed with their friends in their living rooms. I think people who like ttrpgs should explore bizarre itch.io games and new systems that have no affiliation whatsoever with any major publishing house. If youre lucky enough to have a cool local community radio station nearby you should listen to that and what people close to you have to say and what they’re creating that has no focus on being nationally appealing. I just think creation should be more joyful and local both in a geographic sense and a personal and social sense and unconcerned with whether or not it will be commercially viable or slick or even good beyond your own pride in it. And I think it’s good to seek out art that exists for its own sake or to appeal to the community it was created within
DNA Analysis of the fused human skeleton reveals that it all originated from one woman in her late forties.
God’s Scarecrow
Most organic life dies within an 80 meter vicinity of the apparition. The “fog” that it emits from its “eyes” and “mouth” may be a factor in this sudden death phenomena.
Devil’s Door (Casablanca, exact coordinates kept secret)
Studies are still being made on how (or why) the door was constructed deep within the cave system. It is absolutely prohibited for anyone to open or enter the door.
The Floaters of rural Canada
At a glance, the eight bodies found floating in a field within a rural farmland in Canada appeared to be human. Yet closer inspection revealed that the figures were entirely made up of a sponge-like fungal growth.
Let’s just appreciate the fact that, in the time that it took Ethan and Ilsa to make their big heroic escape from the opera house, Benji managed to do the following:
Escape from the opera house (unnoticed).
Find a car.
Presumably, steal it (unless that car had been prepared earlier by Ethan and was part of some plan we never see or hear about).
In grad school I had a writing teacher who’d completely cream my essays. Cross-outs and tracked changes. He took me at my word When I said I wanted to get better. But when he liked something, he’d point to what was working: More of this, please. Did I mention he was British? This is important because lately, whenever something is really working, I tend to think to myself, in a British accent: More of this, please. A lunch date turned dinner date with a dreamboat who is slightly embarrassed his eyes water in cold weather. Him looking like he’s tearing up at Shake Shack. More of this, please. A toddler turning to me at the park holding her hair tie, asking me to fix her ponytail. Her grandmother nodding to go right ahead, my hands collecting wisps of yellow. More of this, please. Any time my family is honest about mental health, what my grandparents were up against. This. Cough-drop wrappers that say, Bet on yourself. Pop-up concerts in the city. Stevie Wonder playing Songs in the Key of Life at 10am on a Monday, hundreds of people stopping midcommute in button-ups and blazers belting out every word to “Sir Duke” and “Isn’t She Lovely,” saying, “My boss is just going to have to understand!” The subway tiles under Carnegie Hall with names of performers who played there: Lena Horne, September 29, 1947. The Beatles, February 12, 1964. Dance classes with live drummers. An editor saying, “I’ll pass this on,” instead of, “I’ll pass on this.” A stranger falling asleep on my shoulder for several stops. Staring at dates in authors’ bios: Ruth Stone, 1915-2011. Larry Levis, 1946-1996. Recommitting to living as much as I can. Realizing the dash between the year you’re born and the year you die is smaller than your smallest fingernail. It’s smaller than a strand of saffron in a bottle the size of a thimble in a spice shop across the street.
