Saturday, September 26, 2015

yellow journalist.

dear yellow journalist,

i know what your name stands for. i've been grabbed to its heart, magnetized. i dance on strip poles and wear fishnet. my hands are on your ass. you're riding me. i'm playing with another's hot girls tits. what am i wearing? "wearing"? what's that? does that prevent my cunt from getting wet? because my cunt is wet for you, yellow journalist. our romance is of bold, blocky lettering- "tits and ass and drugs and fights".
this is what speaks to me as one among the undertakers of the ogliarchy these days. our authority has been turned from a green "IDEALS!" to "JADED: LOOK AT OUR EXPRESSIONS OF OUR JADED IDEALS NOW!" i get dreams of the stuff that's relevant to yellow journalism and that's all i dream about.

"TITS! ASS! DRUGS! FIGHTS" i'm inspired by you. you have really
proven hollywood and the white house are the lands of the soap opera people
as much as i believe they are.
these are the magic lands where my heroes go to live.
they are all crazy people.

is a good thing? this which we fight for? if this is a good thing, than
what is it good for? what is it we are not fighting for? absolutely nothing?
i don't know. i don't know, you guys.