The Inside Of My Thighs Are So Soft, Y'all.

The inside of my thighs are so soft, y'all.

There's not much I wouldn't give for a bear hug from Alfred Molina

Terry Jones was the King of Screaming into the Wind.

I keeping waiting for that one button on his vest to go. I want it to pop off completly. I want to hear it snap and bounce off his knee. I want to see his face as he feels it free it self, and I want to see him fluster and blush as it skitters away. I see it straining, threating to go as he twists and breathes and slouches and bounces, but it never does. What beautiful torture.

It used to bother me that I can't connect to people. I'd see people just walking up to others and just chatting away, or someone being able to talk about something without being asked a direct question. I've tried, and I don't know why I can't. I can't pretend like that. Why doesn't my face move like that? Why doesn't my voice vary like that? Why does it feel like I have to perform an emotion for people to notice I'm having one? Why do I have to mimic others to express myself? Why don't people notice when I express myself in the way that comes naturally to me?

Tall, fat men? Delicious. Tall, sporty women? Delectable. Short, serious nb folk? Scrumptious. Short, slight men? Succulent. Short, round women? Tasty. Tall, heavyset nb? Mouthwatering. People of any and all stripes in well tailored suits or well maintained suits of armor? Ambrosial.