response to little auk on ps

first of all, i would never tell you to fuck off, my dear, i'm not that kind of douchebag. secondly, i've got absolutely nothing to hide, and no reason to hide anything. i love answering questions, i just hate talking about the past, or being called a criminal when i insist futily i'm not. i never get asked enough questions, so the answers in my head are just spiraling around with no beginning to be found.

the pictures on my profile are all of me. i would have no reason to post a picture of anyone else, nor would i want to, as i hate most other males at this point. why would i put some other douchebag on my profile, i wouldn't even do that if i were ten times uglier, i don't false advertize something i'm not. and i'm certainly no clone like the rest of those males. cloned shoes, cloned haircuts, they look like they just stumbled off an assembly line, i can see the barcode where their soul should be! but they get the ladies!

no, the pictures are all of me, it's just that the older ones are of me a hundred pounds heavier. when my life was destroyed in twenty thirteen, i lost everything, including things no person should ever have to lose, some of those were my choice, some i'm thankful for losing, some things lost were damage done to me, that i undid. a good example was my weight. between two thousand five and two thousand nine, the mother of my children had me in and out of the psych wards, fucked up on mental drugs, including a shot even though i hate needles and pills, i was in a haze of confusion, a fog. i pulled myself out of that swamp, back to clarity. but the mental drugs and sugary foods... i woke up one morning a hundred pounds heavier, in a fog, with a newborn daughter, thinking 'i can't raise a kid like this'. it took me five years, but i pulled myself out of that fog, got myself to the right psychiatrist who understood me. the mother of my children sold my kids to cps like a back alley drug deal on january twenty third, twenty ten, even though i fought like a warhead for two years. everyone can blame any part of this on me that they want, but i know what happened, and i know what parts were my fault. meeting the mother of my children and talking to her? i'll take the blame for that mistake, hell, i'll blame myself for that. stupid, stupid, stupid, what were you thinking?

so from two thousand five till twenty thirteen, i weighed two fifty, two sixty. from two thousand five till two thousand eight, i was in a mental fog. i never should have met that evil woman. but i would have felt... the same way... as when women won't give me the time of day... i don't like to be that type of asshole. i don't want to have anything to do with them. but i'm pigeonholed by assumptions and fears, and whatever douchebags came before me who fucked it up for me. i know, i just know, for a fact, before i got here, some douchebag went around pissing off all the women, and that's why they won't look at me. that's why they won't date anyone who doesn't have a job. and that's also, ironically, why i don't want a job. but you think any woman would figure that part out? is there no other way to separate myself from other men?

in twenty thirteen, my life was destroyed, and i'm glad it was, it was a crap life i shouldn't have lived in the first place. i wasted twenty years on the wrong people, plain and simple.

but twenty thirteen, while it may have appeared that my life was swerving off course, i was actually getting it on course by cutting all toxic ties out of my life. now i'm free to travel and roam as i please with no hands hanging onto my feet anymore, no fingers pointing at me and blaming me for their problems, while accepting no blame or responsibility for what they've destroyed. pots and kettles and fingers and projection, a game my family knew all too well. i escaped that hell, and i'm damn glad i did. by summer of twenty thirteen, i had lost a hundred pounds on the poverty diet. lost my long hair, two kids, my cat, my computer, my car, the avengers lunch box my mother had just bought me as the coolest birthday present i had ever gotten, lost that the day she gave it to me, as an early birthday present, yeah, i'm that much of a loser. i'm that much of a fuckin' loser! but at least i didn't hit the ground rolling. everyone else i knew from my past, they'd all be dead by now, having walked in my path. i'm still standing. endurance is worth more than gold.

i can even show you (send you pictures) of my id and debit card, so you can compare the pictures for yourself, the one on the debit card is of me a hundred pounds ago, the one on the id was taken on a very very bad day, where i don't even have point one percent fraction of a smile going, and no hair. i used to have my sides shaved under my long hair, and kept it pulled back, but after i shaved that dead rats nest off, i'm growing it back, i have three years' growth since january twenty fifteen, it's thicker, healthier... softer, smoother... the moist air helps it grow better, not the desert hell i come from (which i no longer tell people; it's like a dirty word sliding off my tongue anymore).

so... the pictures may look like a different person, but i assure you, it's me, and there's only one me on this planet. i look just like my mother, and my daughter looked just like me. i have more pictures to prove it, as well as three blogs, two deviantart pages, two facebooks, a fetlife, a twitter, an instagram, a youtube, zero watchers, and a partridge'd family in a dead fuckin' tree. it says that on my twitter. i'm high tech and low maintenance. (i loved george carlin's rant called 'a modern man'. he also said 'think of how stupid the average person is, then try to imagine, half of them are dumber than that'). i miss my mama. she passed away may thirtyfirst, twenty fifteen, as i was hitchhiking up the coast of california, from san francisco to humboldt county. i was surrounded by thick, dense, white fog, lime green grass, and crossing a wooden bridge, and i felt my mother go. called my family doctor on july fourth, and sure enough, mom died, she said.

i can show you whatever pictures you want, from whatever i have left, but this is me, i'm not trying to pretend to be anyone else, and no one's brave enough to be me, so... for what that's worth. there's only one me, and i like it that way. if only i had tits, i'd be self sufficient and able to attract a female. it's raining outside right now, so it's gonna be a pain in the ass to get to the doctor today. or panhandle. if you want, though, you can take a look at my deviantart pages, they have more pictures of me, and you can find those links on my main blog, which is evolutionhotline.com

the picture i currently use as my main profile photo, is one of my favourite shots i took of myself. i'm not a lazy millennial selfie taker, i put much more effort into doing shit myself. i was starting my own photography, just teaching myself, i had gotten a semi decent camera, a couple big tripods, a couple small ones (for ground level shooting), memory cards, etc, and i started taking pictures. i taught myself how to use the timer on the camera, so i set it, put the camera on the tiny tripod, ran and sat down in front of the camera, lit a cigarette, and took the picture myself... oh, wait, i just realized i'm describing the wrong 'selfie' picture of myself... i have two, they're both favourites... the one where i'm sitting in shadow under a sunset smoking, has the words 'like growing thumbs on planet earth' typed into the picture... the one of me standing behind a bright storm cloud, i also took myself, i set the timer, stood in front of the camera... but that's when i was a hundred pounds heavier. i've always worn trench coats, since i was a teenager, that's what i feel comfortable in. i only wear three shades: black, ultra black, and death. i'm offensively unique, dangerously original, and daringly suicidal. the most misunderstood portable red pill salesman on this planet. but i am me and no one else.

i know i'm not attractive. most women make it so obvious how ugly i really am, it's hard not to see it. but i'm still glad i don't look like that asshole with the shorts and flipflops. i have my own style, and you can't have it. i said that to some dude, he says 'i don't want it', i said 'exactly'. (thinking in my head, 'then stay the fuck away from me, you're not my fuckin' friend, you'll never be in my phone book, stop begging me for shit, stop thinking you're better than me, get your own fucking cigarettes and lighters, and leave me the fuck alone! stop calling me bro, i'm not your fucking brother, i'm an only child and my mother's dead, pull up your fucking pants, grow the fuck up, and next time i'm talking to a lady, don't walk up and interrupt! asshole! i'm supposed to be friends with assholes like that? i can't tell you how many times i've started talking to a lady for the first time, and some douchebag with drugs and dragging pants will walk up, invariably, and off she'll go... and i was in the middle of a fucking sentence, trying to advertize my ugly worthless fucking peacock tail to her, knowing it's hidden in the shadow of some bigger fuckin' douchebag... zero fucking hope!!! and every fucking time, this big fucking alpha male turd tank will interrupt, talk over me, incoherently, and the woman will still leave, because i'm not interesting enough to compare with meth and heroin and whatever the fuck's in that jerkoff's pants. faith in humanity? how much does that cost? why the fuck am i alive?

at any one moment, any pantdragging rapper idiot wannabe homie douchebag can walk up and take a woman from me, and i'm supposed to WANT to live? how does that work? can you write that out in mathematical hieroglyphs, it might make more sense to me...

sorry, not meaning to rant and go off on tangents, some crackhead had to trigger me this morning by not taking no for an answer, and now he's dancing in front of me in a starfucks to his rap music crap.

and i have to sit here blocking womens' view of him... i'm necessary. oh, and don't make him get out of the way of the rich khaki wearing fucks that just walked in, am i on teevee?

my mama taught me, 'son, don't just learn from your own mistakes, watch the show 'cops''. i just want to know why he keeps looking at me. even pointing sometimes. as if there's some regulated level of obviousness that's required here for male dominance to be visible to women.

anyway... babbling... sorry. trying to answer your questions as informatively as i can, while i wait out the rain. and trying to ignore this douchebag. i should turn around, but i don't want the starfucks employees to see the naked girl on my desktop. if life were any more unfair... i might be necessary. stand in everyone's way, dude, that way they can blame me for it all. i should travel back in time and shoot anyone crying wolf, that's what i should do. no, wait... shoot the fuckin' wolf. possibly before he blows three pigs in a brothel.

got a joke for ya... first little piggy walks into a bar, sits down at the bar, asks the bartender, line me up ten shots, bartender lines him up ten shots, piggy takes a deep breath, and downs all ten shots real quick. sits there for a minute, then asks the bartender where the restroom is, says round the corner to the left, piggy goes, and then leaves the bar and walks home. second little piggy walks into the bar, sits down at the bar, asks the bartender, line me up twenty shots, bartender lines him up twenty shots, piggy takes a deep breath, downs all twenty shots real quick, sits there for a minute, then asks the bartender where the restroom is, says round the corner to the left, piggy goes, and leaves the bar and walks home. third little piggy walks into the bar, sits down at the bar, asks the bartender, line me up thirty shots, bartender lines him up thirty shots, piggy takes a deep breath, downs all thirty shots. sits there for a minute, starts feeling pretty good, then he gets up and starts to leave the bar. the bartender asks him, 'aren't you going to ask me where the restroom is?', little piggy says 'no, i'm the little piggy who goes wee wee wee all the way home'.

these crackheads just will not get out of anyone's way, nor will they leave the fucking starfucks, people are stepping over their crap just to get to the counter, but this is all okay, i'm the only one who's doing something wrong, i'm sure. and i'll walk out of here and encounter more violence from who knows who. i can't predict the future, but i can clearly see the obvious. there's no debating if that train is coming for me or not. my name's on the end of the tracks.

i used to wear a pink hair tie around my goatee. someone asked me once, why, i said 'for my daughter'. but ever since then, i've gotten sick of facial hair. get this scumbag away from me! what the fuck, you think this is your fucking starfucks, asshole! get fucking lost! sorry... chaos... my driving pictures were taken by the mother of my children while i was driving my 'little red pill' (a chevy cavalier), before i got my white pontiac torrent. i miss that car, i loved that car... i named him buggy because he had electrical issues. all his dash lights were red. i miss my car! i got my torrent in april two thousand eight, had him till twenty thirteen, when he ran out of gas, i had to leave him in an arby's parking lot, my mom had him towed home, and sold him to my uncle. broke my fucking heart. after all the care and oil i put in that car.

the pictures of me looking thinner, you can tell, if you look at them close enough, it's me, just thinner. a hundred pounds thinner. it's me. would this idiot please stop dancing in front of me, what the fuck is going on here! seriously! i'm turning around, i can't stand looking at this moron. i can't turn around, the cord won't reach. but he won't leave. this is his starfucks. and if he grabs his crotch one more fuckin' time... how can i block this particular distraction... beanie over my eyes? that might work... the starfucks employee who made my hot chocolate this morning... she just left... of course waves at him, but doesn't even see me waving at her just after him on the way out... yeah, i know how invisible and ugly i am. but in my eyes, the rest of this world is so ugly. so fake and evil.

i love how you call it a 'gagger', though. i smoke a lot. my trifecta of therapy is marijuana, menthol, and metal. i keep metal in my ears, smoke in my lungs, i do okay. if one of those tires goes flat, i eat curbs.

i'm almost offended that people actually have to do a criminal background check on me, and that the cops harassing me and charging me with bullshit charges actually show up, next to the ugliest i've ever looked, just to enforce the inevitable 'no'. but it's okay. i know i'm not a criminal. the cops can charge me with whatever they want while they're abusing and violating me, humiliating me, it doesn't matter to me, i know they're the real criminals, they're corrupt and barbaric, but you can't even say that to them. which only further proves the fucking point, but not when they're always right. oh, and they have to bring a dog in here now, great, as if i'm not uncomfortable enough, let this beast shred my skirt, why don't you. oh, cause it's cute!

yeah, february twenty fifteen, i went through portland. big fucking mistake. the cops there are so fascist, there are way too many of them, they can't admit that they've criminalized homeless... what the fuck is this idiot doing!!! goddamnit, i can't look low enough! they can't admit that they've criminalized homelessness, but they use that as a loophole to harass and abuse you and get away with it by blaming it on you, along with whatever other crimes they can use to incriminate you. it's all just so the politicians hellbent on our destruction can get richer off people like me just before they nuke us all. i wish this moron would die soon. i'm not allowed to exist, and constantly being told where i don't belong and what i'm doing wrong, but this dude can march and dance wherever the fuck he damn well pleases, okay, that's fair. sorry, trying to stay on topic. i spent one month in portland. during that month, i was taken to jail twice for scraping resin out of my pipe, just before weed was legalized there that july. they obviously needed one more posterchild for their war on drugs, that's all that was. but telling the cops you have ptsd, in fact, complex ptsd... doesn't mean shit to them, they can still, by law, stand there and trigger you all they want, while anything you do while triggered can still incriminate you... makes a legal ton of sense, doesn't it? i'm accepted and welcomed in this world! right? so, because i spent one month in portland three years ago, and made the mistake of going back there the end of this last year... not only did a crackhead have to break my nose two mornings before thanksgiving for not letting him use my lighter, cause that's what i deserve when they can't take no for an answer, that was my 'happy thanksgiving welcome to portland' present, which i should have taken as my warning sign to get the fuck out of there, but had to wait till december... so december first, i get my disability check, get a new sleeping bag, new luggage case, new shoes, eighty bucks worth of weed, and made myself tired walking too much, so when i should have left portland that night, i had to lay down, so i wake up saturday morning, december second, being arrested for a warrant... how's that for forgiveness? and mercy? that crackhead who broke my nose, you think he'll ever pay for a crime his entire life? fuck no. i still feel so violated and traumatized from that, that i'm not even sure if i'm making sense half the time. i feel like a turd.

jail sucked. spent christmas, my son's tenth birthday, and new years in jail, not to mention most of may twenty seventeen in the seattle jail for threatening to kill a security guard who decided to wake me up by banging his stick on the metal pole next to my head... but yeah, i'll take all these different unintentional crimes and use them to tape this dead lizard tale to my ass so it will never fall off till society's ready to forgive me and let it fall the fuck off, because my protests about it being traumatic aren't relevant, i even had a cop tell me my ideas are not valid. oh, i so totally belong in this world, don't i? if there's a 'king of the mountain', i must be 'king of the abyss'. or slave to it, one or the other. i can't tell down here, it's too dark. so fuck holiday seasons. i no longer do holidays. there's no reason to. they're someone else's good days, not mine. i don't deserve kindness, so... okay... let's keep this shit up, and i'll keep wanting to leave this world. it wasn't my doing. jail was not my fault, and it was not because i'm a criminal. i'm not on probation or anything, i finally got to talk to the judge, got her to understand what a horrible misunderstanding it was, and that they were basically preventing me from getting my trauma therapy in seattle i already had set up... she threw everything off, including half the charges, and let me go. i don't give a shit about charges, because i know i'm not a fucking criminal, i don't even associate with criminals or drug addicts, let alone other males or bums. call me whatever you want, i know what i am and what i'm not. and i don't need anyone else telling me what to do to be more acceptable by such a morbid society.

'it is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society'... (jiddu krishnamurti).

but i'm just trying to repair myself, getting my feet flat, and starting my trauma therapy again, talking to doctors, trying to get into a community college and a van, something i can sleep in and drive.

but i hate my fucking life, i hate this fucking twisted, toxic world. and the abusive nightmare relationship between me and authorities. let them overpower... what the fuck do i have to do to keep my headphone cord from catching on absolutely nothing every five seconds while i'm trying to type, how many fucking times do i have to hit the fucking apostophe and backspace keys, what the fuck!!! goddamnit!!! i could get rich off betting people which females will ignore me, if only i were slightly more social. i fucking hate this life.

sorry. i can't help that. it just comes out. it's always misunderstood. the weaker the people, the happier they have to be... the more they're going to misunderstand that verbal stress ejection. this headphone cord just isn't going to stop catching on nothing, all that's down there is my skirt, but everytime i go to move my head, they pull out of my ears, and goddamnit, if i have to hit the fucking backspace key one more fucking time, i'm chopping these dead fish fingers the fuck off!!! i could type better using the 'claw' from the stuffed animal arcade game thing! what the fuck!!! my cat could type better than this!!! what the fuck is wrong with my fucking fingers! they won't do a fucking thing i ask anymore! just chop them the fuck off! save me the fucking stress! the only reason i type anymore is because whenever i try to record my voice, the phone spells my 'because' as 'cuzz', and i fucking hate that fucking modern hipster doofus lingo! fuck, it's ten thirty already? how fucking much have i written this morning... too much... two other comment answers... i guess... sorry... confused... can't fucking think... anyway... the oregon shit... i'm not a fucking criminal, and i'm sick of being called one. i've never done anything wrong, but i've been violated and wronged way too much, and i was even too poor to have anything done about it. when i was a kid, back in the eighties, my mother built her own hotrod seventy one chevy nova. when it was wrecked... it was hit head on by a cadillac... simultaneously cracked the engine block and my mother's fucking heart. by a cadillac. by a fucking cadillac, we took out a cadillac?! that's like two tanks colliding. my mother tried to sue the dumb blonde who hit us, but the dumb blonde slut filed bankruptcy, and then called my mother a 'fat bitch', to which my mother replied without hesitation, 'you're fuckin' right!'. we couldn't even afford to defend ourselves or protect ourselves... that fuckin' 'privacy and security' product they try to sell to you? i've never fucking needed it! i've got nothing to hide! i'm too poor to keep from getting fucked and screwed and cheated and beaten and abused! i'm too poor to keep from being ignored and unwanted!

i once wrote a poem about poverty, called 'god's gravity', i lost the poem, but i still remember the last couple lines:

'the only solution i can see from my hell, is for your expensive heaven to fall'.

money is my enemy. i see what it does to people, and i don't like it. if i could find a woman who hated money as much as i do, i wouldn't be bitching about a fuckin' thing. try telling any woman that.

i also don't mean to generalize so much, but it's not easy to see better here. i had a therapist once tell me not to see things so black and white, i said 'it's hard to see colour in a black and white world'.

i wish people wouldn't do background checks on me. that's the invasion of my privacy, and it ends up saying anything worse about me than is even true, and making me look worse than i am, instead of anything out there to help me look better. but it's not relevant to me. i know who i am. i'm confident i'm not a criminal. i mean no harm to anyone, i just hate a lot of aspects of this society. people i try not to hate, i try to blame it all on money, from their behaviours, to the reason i am where i am. it's money, the true root of all evil.

but i am not evil. i'm the enemy of money. i just want to be noticed. acknowledged. recognized. appreciated. wanted. needed. necessary. valid. yearned for. touched. heard. i don't think that's too much to ask, i refuse to believe it's too much to ask, and i refuse to live on a planet where it's too much to ask. i'm valuable. but not if i'm the only one saying so? then where the fuck's the gas pedal? who's drooling on it?

sorry for all the ranting, please forgive me, ptsd sucks. i make no excuses for my mistakes. about my ptsd, people say 'you've got the perfect excuse', and i try to explain to them, i'm not looking for excuses to support me and whatever delusion i think i am. i have a legitimate reason for being damaged, of which i regret, and am trying to undo. is that not a totally different thing? then faking it and trying to get something out of life for nothing, making no effort, and... i see so many other men living this way, but all fingers lead to me. why is that? after i've said i'm unlike any other male, still? makes me question the reality of this haunted house of mirrors here. if all i see are fingers... hmm... nah, couldn't be... should i be here? on the only planet that tries to convince you that it's the only planet, while calling you the narcissist? oh, i get it, this is planet irony.

the playpen in the middle of a turd canyon...

with an irony deficiency. ha. good joke, lord! i get it!

those cops can't even spell or pronounce my name correctly, then bitch about me disrespecting them.

honestly, all i see are elementary school students throwing monkey shit back and forth, that's all i see on this planet, every day, all day, every day, every person, every store, every dollar, every corner, that's all i see.

and if i speak up... i get covered in shit.

also... i've never understood homeless people's bail... that's... that's not even humour...

no bail, no probation, no handcuffs, no, no, no. my uncle was the liar and thief of the family, but somehow, i got either his karma, or his target for blame, cause people can't stop calling me a criminal just for wanting to be touched, like i'm such a pervert that i have to be locked in a cage for asking for compassion and physical fucking contact! like it's against some law for a bum to be touched! i haven't even asked for sex in the last year, but their assumptions don't reflect that! wow! oh, i'm so wanted here.

if i were in prison, you would not be getting emails from me, my dear. unless they were handwritten snailmails. and even then, i would need a physical mailing address, not a dating site.

i can't... i'm sorry... i can't look at another woman in skin tight pants, or i'm going to stab this heart of mine, all it does is want, want, want, cry, cry, cry, hurt, hurt, hurt, ache, ache, ache, yearn, yearn, yearn, shut the fuck up and do something useful and productive, you fucking useless heart! don't type my 'm's or 'k's, but keep typing double 'n's and 'j's, fuckin' lovin' life, lord! these aren't even my fingers, are they? they're being remote controlled by a nerd in a spinny hat! end this fucking nightmare!

god... fuck it... breathe... breathe... relax... breathe... i miss my mama.

i forget what i was saying, and i may have left off on a couple thoughts, but... sorry.

i've never looked for any excuse to defend me to people. no, my mother taught me to defend myself, verbally, against everything, from ignorance to accusations, from criminals to cops, from liars to thieves. my mother raised me to question everything, trust and fear nothing, to think about what i'm going to say before i say it, to keep my mouth shut and let people assume i'm stupid rather than opening it and proving it, to learn from everyone's mistakes as 'what not to do'. i don't think i've failed yet, but i know i haven't succeeded. what would success look like? a female by my side. i know how sad it is to ask. i fool myself not.

i wish someone could ever acknowledge my honesty, but they claim to have to know you for years before that's even possible. i hate that. no one knows me. and i've had to introduce myself to too many of the wrong people, only to have them render my breath irrelevant and wasted. pull your fucking pants up! sorry. i'm sick of having to forge every friendship myself. i'm sick of making the only effort forward, while everyone else tells me repeatedly how i'm not trying hard enough. and telling me to 'just do it yourself'.

you ever hear of a one man revolution? neither have i. but try telling them that. go ahead, i'll wait.

not in jail, not a criminal, not faking my pictures, not trying to be anyone else, not a fake or a clone, and no clone would ever be capable of saying the words 'offensivey unique' unless it was about to short circuit.

pride had never meant anything to me. that being said, i'm proud of who i am, because i'm proud i'm not that asshole. i've seen his music collection and his porn collection, he's a douchebag.

that phallic rage swinging in my face...

i feel violated enough by jail and cops. please don't press it in. i am who i say i am, because no one else is brave enough to be this. to oppose society so vigilantly. in fact, another line from my twitter...

i oppose the entire fucking world... like a thumb.

you know anyone else who would put that on their twitter?

if you find them, fuckin' let me know, cause that's my fuckin' drummer right there!

froze my ass off last night. in fact, if you see my ass, tell him to get home!

people with homes can say 'i rolled out of bed this morning'... homeless people? i stumbled out of the concrete!

concrete is earth cancer!

if you cloned me, i'd fuck me.

anyway... hope that answered all your questions. don't feel bad for asking, you're doing me a favour by helping me sort thoughts that are currenty scattered and shattered across a floor...

like cheese on waffle house hashbrowns...

sorry again for all the ranting and rambling. can't hold it in these days. i honestly feel more sane when i let it out, especially when someone's listening. what i wouldn't give to just sleep on a woman's chest for a week. like a curled up kitten. we need to find all the women who would still take that as a compliment, and round them up in one area... like shooting fish in a barrel, just get the right selection of fish, right? this barrel is cod, this barrel is flounder... this barrel is women who can take a compliment, this barrel is women who... shop too much...

i know i can sound like an offensive asshole. it's not my choice. i wanted to be mister smooth rockstar.

anyway... i better stop now, or else i won't. thank you. sorry. hugs. please just don't... jesus christ, lady, keep that thing in a fuckin' box, would you? goddamnit... fucking distractions. just advertising ass like it's beer. fucking, i feel a braincell commit suicide everytime that happens. when will this stop? she was walking like the aliens in 'arrival' with charlie sheen, that ain't right. what the fuck, man. there's a difference between high heels and stilts. fuck it. sorry. i was trying to say, just please don't hurt me. i'm sick of being hurt, neglected, left hanging with abrupt endings, no explanations, rejected for the saddest excuses... i just want to be touched. i want female hands on my flesh, and vice versa. is that too much to ask? and not even of you, i just mean in general, in today's society, did i miss a meeting, when did that price skyrocket?

anyway. stopping now. hope this long ass message makes you chuckle even once. that's all i ask. just fuckin' laugh at something. that means the fuckin' world to me. whenever someone tells me something i said was funny, i could float on that for a couple days. but i'm almost out of weed and i need to panhandle my ass off. fortunately, i don't have much ass, so it's easy to sit on my house, instant panhandling spot, just knock it over, ain't no wolf blowin' my house, my eyes are the only front door i'll ever need...

and i get to advertise on the front of my own house... i wrote on my luggage case, 'please support the ozz cause, paypal.me/ozzydraven, too ugly to be a prostitute'...

another one of my favourite funnier signs i haven't used in a while, just before i go... is...

kicked out of mensa for being a smart ass.

toodles. best wishes. hugs not drugs. make love not war. fall in love, not in line.