Born again Titanium Virgin

So, after about five or six incarnations of a blog which is almost as many therapists I’ve had over the years and much like I’ve settled on one therapist, mainly the hieroglyphic looking cat I see in the mirror, I have settled on a blog and with it, the first and only official rambling arena for Lee Barton, the true and only half brother of Obama. The resemblance is stunning; we have the same third toe nail and our kneecaps you can barely tell apart, especially the patella once they’ve been removed and hosed down. Beyond that, you have to squint a lot; plus I haven’t had electroshock therapy, outside of the pleasurable experience at my birth of being yanked out of my mother’s vagina with salad tongs and lacerating my nose.  Already I was born wounded, like any warrior worth it

Over the next few weeks I will consolidate and connect everything of my twitters and facebooks and such to create a mass fervor of reading about what brand of almond butter I bought and why it affects my male menstrual cycle; I am tied to the moon, and so as she warbles and grunts and pulls the earth’s liquids to and fro so it does with me.  I look forward to getting consistent with my writings.

Alternate title for my blog is ‘my animated drooping wiener dog heart’;  I believe that will be my WEB blog once I figure that out here.  Because the last two years have been very lonely.  I can hear time.  That’s how lonely it’s been.  Cavemen’s unwanted thoughts come barreling through my third eye at 2am when I can’t sleep and am wondering if I should trade my king size bed for an army cot so it feels appropriate for the usual quota.  It’s my own doing and yet, my dang-sloughed penis, full of floral prints and empty frames, is waiting, tapping its foot on my thigh, for someone to pique its interest;  I have this theory that the world’s first orgasm still breathes somewhere on the planet, like the world’s first living singe celled algae unless Monsato found it and turned it into Sugar Corn Pops that makes your kidneys turn into ice cream sandwiches.

I will wring out ache until it yawns and then screams and then sings.  Good night. Bonnuit.

 

 

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