Sentenced to paragraphs. Don't have the mana to craft my way outta this one. Red white and doomed. Wrote a whole novel in my head that summer; released it via Harpers-Collins; sold 100k copies on the dot.
Jen. Jennifer the Italo-disco ball. Beautiful and tragic; darkened lines of head-confidence. Love, set, match me up. I'm 16 semicolon page-break spring break college flake and almost twenty-eight. Close enough. Open heart purgery. Fuck off.
Wrote too many novellas that weekend. English literaturist; let's try to uh ...
Jennifer the boot-wearer; pink-nail bearer; dark brown hair-er. Wink and male stares-er. Dumb.
Jen Jen. Jennifer the token fem fem. Jennifer Bloom. Jen was just chillin'; eyes like oceanography lectures; hypnotical textures. I wanna text her. Stop rhyming you fucking joke.
Who art thou, modest Jennifer? Rode a couple Stephanies that semester. Wrote a couple Marinas that September. But not a single response from dearest Jennifer. Penciled and penned her name and sent it to her. Purple ball-point ink dripping with nervous energy. Don't respond—just let me gaze into your pearly blanks. Then fucking reload those semi-autos and fire away.
She read my poem—which was more of an abstract assault on the English language. Our nimble heroine jettisoned the purple plea and departed the scene. Stephanie? Eh we'll see.
Jennifer. Jen. Jenniflower. Jennifleeting. Jen—can I call you Rachel?—can I call you later? I don't have your digits but based on your—Oh, OK, guess that's a no then.
Jenniflustered. Just let me into your gendered general direction. Roller skated to school, backpack full of antiquated textbooks debased with pink scribble. Saw your friend Katie, hugged her, then said: "Good luck on the test; its a toughie." Language modified because Katie is a good girl and it's probably not that difficult for her. You B+'d it with ease; botched a few of the open-enders chiefly due to time constraints. You are sixteen and beautiful and have no aspirations of going to an Ivy or an X-Tech. Jennifer.
Buy that book of poems I recommended you. Watch that Netflix miniseries or just ... pass the blunt.
Wednesday, January 27, 2021
Tuesday, July 16, 2019
Domme Citay
Part 1: All Plays Need a Good Stage Director
I didn't know if I arranged this right, but the girls texted me that they were on their way in tight black corsets and thigh-high heels. Alyssa then sent a winkie face with an unnecessary space in between the characters.
"Generic as fuck," Shaun said. He gave me this lecture about switches and how my mindset was wholly cracked—that no one is either "permanently dominate or submissive"; we all just want unpredictability. I tried to tell him that he was basically entrusting 4 people who have never participated in BDSM to somehow be both safe and completely reckless.
My aunt and her new plaything entrusted me with this Cedar Grove mini-mansion for a week as they had flown to the Bahamas or something. I was to watch over her 3 kitties and keep the place as un-lived in as it currently looked. Easy stuff. It was time for a little creativi-tay!
Alyssa Chee and Maria Kay were nothing if not adventurous. I knew not of the pair's sexual inclinations--but based on their risqué behavior at supposedly tame indie rock concerts and public parks, I figured they'd be ready to try something new. As for Shaun, he was like my sexual spirit animal. I needed him to be there on such a momentous occasion.
"How long are they gonna be?" Shaun spat out. He sounded both nervous and vaguely entitled, but I knew better than to question his mentality. We told them 7pm, and as that marker passed they were at least an hour away.
"Who knows? Is there traffic on Saturday nights?" I responded absently. My nerves were a bit more palpable. What if they never came? Were we prepared? Shawn's box of 'BDSM ESSENTIALS'--containing cuffs and chokers and at least one chastity belt--looked shallow and unremarkable. I felt like there should be a guidebook in there.
"Fucking dumbass, there's always traffic around here," my spirit animal barked. Honestly, I was five seconds away from kicking this guy out; his pseudo-arrogant tones weren't welcome to my anxious ears. I wanted to call one of the girls to make sure they were coming.
"50 minutos babe," Alyssa assured. She sounded like she wanted me to think she was drunk. "We'll see ya in a bit--keep your pants on hon." My pants were fastened quite tightly, thank you very much.
I hastened myself over to a mirror to take a look. Black corduroy jeans fitting snugly in most areas, dark blue polo one-buttoned, face frozen in shock. In the background, Shawn was pacing in some sort of funeral suit, his 5'6'' frame engulfed by its massive girth.
Sparkle, the smallest of my aunt's three felines, sauntered into the living room. By this point I was browsing Reddit, listening to some shitty Spotify mix--anything I could do to pass the time. The equally-anxious kitten plopped on my lap and gave me a small ping of comfort. I brushed my finger against the tiny white line of fur on her head. She purred and re-fixed her position, stepping on my groin in the process. It seemed like a sign. Shawn jumped off the couch with a surprising vigor.
"They're here," he alerted.
Alyssa walked in first, her massive heels clanking with the furnished wood floor. She wore a jet black push-up corset and nylon stockings. Her normally carefree visage had become angular and determined. She shot her hazel eyes down at me for a split second before surveying the house. The most salient difference to me was her auburn hair, which was wound in the tightest beehive I had ever seen. Miss Chee then broke character, flashing a knowing grin in the general direction of the living room. Her friend walked in shortly thereafter.
Maria's arrival was less dramatic but more forceful. She paced about the entranceway for a few seconds, sizing up the people and places she was working with. Her dark brown hair was completely adrift, occasionally covering a devilish smile. The beautifully sinister domme sported a not-so-tight latex bodysuit with thigh-wide openings. She wore purple mascara and a spiked choker around her neck. Her heels were slightly less elevated--maybe four inches compared to Alyssa's eight. I couldn't help but be intimidated by her radical energy and fluttering eyes.
"So how are you two lovely ladies doing?" Shawn spat out. He then retreated inward a bit, his confidence dissolving as quickly as it arrived.
"Aren't you gonna ask about the drive?" Alyssa responded, acknowledging Maria for a half-second before beckoning us men of the evening.
"How was the--" I quietly began.
"Oh hush, Chee," Maria interrupted, stomping over my shaky voice. "These fine, well-dressed men don't wanna hear about our boring drive."
She was right, but we talked about it and exchanged other pleasantries for a little while--pacing about the foyer, through the living room, eventually convening in the enormous darkly-painted kitchen. As the minutes shot by, the chaotic excitement of my mind began to set into a cozy clarity. We all just sat with emotional readiness; in our ornate invincibility, we all looked way too confident (given the circumstances).
"Shall we go upstairs?" Alyssa implored.
"We shall," I answered, feigning bravado for a cool half-second.
The four of us headed toward the moderate spiral staircase; we carefully walked upwards, savoring each expensive step. The 2nd floor revealed a long hallway with four doors on either side. Although this was only my third or fourth time here, I knew which one held the master bedroom--its vast, darkly-decorated interior etched in my mind.
"Third on the left," I said, devoid of any context.
"What? Is that where we're experimenting tonight?" Shaun responded. He shot some halfhearted smiles at us, which we returned with muttered laughter.
"It's the master bedroom," I stated resolutely. "It's fucking huge, but there's also a guest room with plenty of space for, uh, experimen—you know, whatever."
Thus, I led the three sexual artistes to the sanctuary du jour. A thick white door led into a blissful beige room with an ocean of vertical space. Therein lie a king-sized bed—its grey bedding folded with mathematical precision. On either side of the behemoth was a wall-high window fully blinded. The room was virtually empty save for a tall white dresser to our left and a few plush love-seats spread throughout.
"This is something," Alyssa chimed in after some wide-eyed silence.
"It's great, right?" I instantly replied.
"Okay, so who has the box of toys and shit?" Shaun piped in.
"Fellas, get on your knees," Maria ordered.
"Oh shit, yes Mas—Mistress, right?" my friend jumbled.
The girls exchanged knowing glances—desperate, confident eye-locks.
"How long are they gonna be?" Shaun spat out. He sounded both nervous and vaguely entitled, but I knew better than to question his mentality. We told them 7pm, and as that marker passed they were at least an hour away.
"Who knows? Is there traffic on Saturday nights?" I responded absently. My nerves were a bit more palpable. What if they never came? Were we prepared? Shawn's box of 'BDSM ESSENTIALS'--containing cuffs and chokers and at least one chastity belt--looked shallow and unremarkable. I felt like there should be a guidebook in there.
"Fucking dumbass, there's always traffic around here," my spirit animal barked. Honestly, I was five seconds away from kicking this guy out; his pseudo-arrogant tones weren't welcome to my anxious ears. I wanted to call one of the girls to make sure they were coming.
"50 minutos babe," Alyssa assured. She sounded like she wanted me to think she was drunk. "We'll see ya in a bit--keep your pants on hon." My pants were fastened quite tightly, thank you very much.
I hastened myself over to a mirror to take a look. Black corduroy jeans fitting snugly in most areas, dark blue polo one-buttoned, face frozen in shock. In the background, Shawn was pacing in some sort of funeral suit, his 5'6'' frame engulfed by its massive girth.
Sparkle, the smallest of my aunt's three felines, sauntered into the living room. By this point I was browsing Reddit, listening to some shitty Spotify mix--anything I could do to pass the time. The equally-anxious kitten plopped on my lap and gave me a small ping of comfort. I brushed my finger against the tiny white line of fur on her head. She purred and re-fixed her position, stepping on my groin in the process. It seemed like a sign. Shawn jumped off the couch with a surprising vigor.
"They're here," he alerted.
Alyssa walked in first, her massive heels clanking with the furnished wood floor. She wore a jet black push-up corset and nylon stockings. Her normally carefree visage had become angular and determined. She shot her hazel eyes down at me for a split second before surveying the house. The most salient difference to me was her auburn hair, which was wound in the tightest beehive I had ever seen. Miss Chee then broke character, flashing a knowing grin in the general direction of the living room. Her friend walked in shortly thereafter.
Maria's arrival was less dramatic but more forceful. She paced about the entranceway for a few seconds, sizing up the people and places she was working with. Her dark brown hair was completely adrift, occasionally covering a devilish smile. The beautifully sinister domme sported a not-so-tight latex bodysuit with thigh-wide openings. She wore purple mascara and a spiked choker around her neck. Her heels were slightly less elevated--maybe four inches compared to Alyssa's eight. I couldn't help but be intimidated by her radical energy and fluttering eyes.
"So how are you two lovely ladies doing?" Shawn spat out. He then retreated inward a bit, his confidence dissolving as quickly as it arrived.
"Aren't you gonna ask about the drive?" Alyssa responded, acknowledging Maria for a half-second before beckoning us men of the evening.
"How was the--" I quietly began.
"Oh hush, Chee," Maria interrupted, stomping over my shaky voice. "These fine, well-dressed men don't wanna hear about our boring drive."
She was right, but we talked about it and exchanged other pleasantries for a little while--pacing about the foyer, through the living room, eventually convening in the enormous darkly-painted kitchen. As the minutes shot by, the chaotic excitement of my mind began to set into a cozy clarity. We all just sat with emotional readiness; in our ornate invincibility, we all looked way too confident (given the circumstances).
"Shall we go upstairs?" Alyssa implored.
"We shall," I answered, feigning bravado for a cool half-second.
The four of us headed toward the moderate spiral staircase; we carefully walked upwards, savoring each expensive step. The 2nd floor revealed a long hallway with four doors on either side. Although this was only my third or fourth time here, I knew which one held the master bedroom--its vast, darkly-decorated interior etched in my mind.
"Third on the left," I said, devoid of any context.
"What? Is that where we're experimenting tonight?" Shaun responded. He shot some halfhearted smiles at us, which we returned with muttered laughter.
"It's the master bedroom," I stated resolutely. "It's fucking huge, but there's also a guest room with plenty of space for, uh, experimen—you know, whatever."
Thus, I led the three sexual artistes to the sanctuary du jour. A thick white door led into a blissful beige room with an ocean of vertical space. Therein lie a king-sized bed—its grey bedding folded with mathematical precision. On either side of the behemoth was a wall-high window fully blinded. The room was virtually empty save for a tall white dresser to our left and a few plush love-seats spread throughout.
"This is something," Alyssa chimed in after some wide-eyed silence.
"It's great, right?" I instantly replied.
"Okay, so who has the box of toys and shit?" Shaun piped in.
"Fellas, get on your knees," Maria ordered.
"Oh shit, yes Mas—Mistress, right?" my friend jumbled.
The girls exchanged knowing glances—desperate, confident eye-locks.
Stay tuned for Part 2...
Thursday, July 11, 2019
Fruitless Cusp
App logos yelling out like rap promos. To the trash you go-go. Insta banned; Snap zapped. Now let's... sliiiide to the left. Forgot about those unflattering graduation party candids. Baleeted—except this sexy beast (conceited)—and ceded space for more of my fleeting face.
Alas, I've been off the grid; spent more time on Google Maps than its three-dimensional counterparts. I'm that yellow faceless guy without the millions of miles accumulated. So what's up? Nick the Raptor, badactor, tact-lacker, Smash plat-er, trash chatter. Poker night with 4 bots and a 67-year-old Grandmother from Southern Illinois.
Open on the cut-off with K6o; gets through. Get some blinds; then hit on Grandma in the community chatbox. Bots think they got a shot with Foldy McOldy but I'm clearly in the money so-to-speak. She accidentally makes her profile pic the sext she intended to send me and gets banned right before I got her digimons. Bot #4 with the nitty fold after I open-shove my 6h9h. Can clearly tell this kid is waiting for his pocket rockets before he limps then sharts on my middling high cards.
Yeah I get it WordPress, I need to get cookies soon. As I nibble way on this last chocolate chip serotonin-releaser, I can slowly feel the fruit-cups in the back of the fridge bid for my attention. And yes, little guys, your patience has been rewarded. #reluctantlyhealthy #realdesserts
Check my OK Cupids; all of them are taken already. Message a lady with her husband splatted on her cover photo and tell Missy to take a hike—save the expletives for a less-classy intellerlextual. Photoshop my top 7 waifus on a picture of my face upon Chad Studly's body; let the jealousy commence! I can assure you I received numerous—and sexually-opportunistic—comments within seconds of my newly-indulgent Cutepic.
Rebound; back on the mound; pitching 83 mph curveballs to daydrinking clowns. This stocky stock-trader just crushed one right back at me; bare-handed it—dabbed—threw it into the stands ... ended up hitting one of the fans. Now I'm banned. Back to the jacky chans.
Alas, I've been off the grid; spent more time on Google Maps than its three-dimensional counterparts. I'm that yellow faceless guy without the millions of miles accumulated. So what's up? Nick the Raptor, badactor, tact-lacker, Smash plat-er, trash chatter. Poker night with 4 bots and a 67-year-old Grandmother from Southern Illinois.
Open on the cut-off with K6o; gets through. Get some blinds; then hit on Grandma in the community chatbox. Bots think they got a shot with Foldy McOldy but I'm clearly in the money so-to-speak. She accidentally makes her profile pic the sext she intended to send me and gets banned right before I got her digimons. Bot #4 with the nitty fold after I open-shove my 6h9h. Can clearly tell this kid is waiting for his pocket rockets before he limps then sharts on my middling high cards.
Yeah I get it WordPress, I need to get cookies soon. As I nibble way on this last chocolate chip serotonin-releaser, I can slowly feel the fruit-cups in the back of the fridge bid for my attention. And yes, little guys, your patience has been rewarded. #reluctantlyhealthy #realdesserts
Check my OK Cupids; all of them are taken already. Message a lady with her husband splatted on her cover photo and tell Missy to take a hike—save the expletives for a less-classy intellerlextual. Photoshop my top 7 waifus on a picture of my face upon Chad Studly's body; let the jealousy commence! I can assure you I received numerous—and sexually-opportunistic—comments within seconds of my newly-indulgent Cutepic.
Rebound; back on the mound; pitching 83 mph curveballs to daydrinking clowns. This stocky stock-trader just crushed one right back at me; bare-handed it—dabbed—threw it into the stands ... ended up hitting one of the fans. Now I'm banned. Back to the jacky chans.
Wednesday, January 30, 2019
Chinese Fool
January 1st and change: hold the quarterlife crises. In the dulcet tones of Marv Albert: Now they're saying it's almost February. At Jersey Mike's down the shore; just ordered a fat sandwich. Now they're saying it's an Italian Stallion. Hand him a crumpled five dollar bill. Sure, it's $8.39, but you don't want all those meaty tertiary bills and coins and—Now they're saying he's on the run from police.
Hid in a Chinese food shop, fucked around and got a part-time job as a delivery man-outlaw. Gotta go deliver this general chow to Point Pleasant; hit traffic and ended up eating this motherfucker's lunch (lol). Had to buy some Tso at a Nu Man Thing on the way, deliver to this shore trash, and apologize for the inconvenience. Ended up doing his dishes and 'comforting' his wife to make amends for my egregious error. Also promised to attend his youngest daughter's Communion (they still do that?), but y'all know I'll eat my way out of that pickle.
The raucous caucasian Asian deliverist. On the run from the popo since twenty oh something low. Got Pixies blasting in the Jetta—the new meta is old shreddahs. Celestaphone calling me; hit ignore or snore or throw the phone out the fucking door. Welp, of course it had to hit that elderly woman's Lincoln MKZizzle. Giggle. No laughing while driving—that deceptively pink Chevy could be a feddy. No distractions; this orange chicken combo meal isn't going to delectably satiate its intended recipient by its-fucking-self.
Blogger; driver; lane-clogger; 9-to-5er. Part-time liar. Full-time heart-miner. Five-time Emmy award watcher. 25-time why-am-I-still-here monitor. Wristwatch checker. It's 4:55 and—holy shit—I still need to deliver these eggrolls to these dreg-holes. I'm in Generic Bad Area, NJ, 66666. Homeless wanderer just approached me at a stoplight. I dropped a couple shekels in his coffee can, so all my sins are henceforth forgiven.
Wait, that's not a cop, right?
Hid in a Chinese food shop, fucked around and got a part-time job as a delivery man-outlaw. Gotta go deliver this general chow to Point Pleasant; hit traffic and ended up eating this motherfucker's lunch (lol). Had to buy some Tso at a Nu Man Thing on the way, deliver to this shore trash, and apologize for the inconvenience. Ended up doing his dishes and 'comforting' his wife to make amends for my egregious error. Also promised to attend his youngest daughter's Communion (they still do that?), but y'all know I'll eat my way out of that pickle.
The raucous caucasian Asian deliverist. On the run from the popo since twenty oh something low. Got Pixies blasting in the Jetta—the new meta is old shreddahs. Celestaphone calling me; hit ignore or snore or throw the phone out the fucking door. Welp, of course it had to hit that elderly woman's Lincoln MKZizzle. Giggle. No laughing while driving—that deceptively pink Chevy could be a feddy. No distractions; this orange chicken combo meal isn't going to delectably satiate its intended recipient by its-fucking-self.
Blogger; driver; lane-clogger; 9-to-5er. Part-time liar. Full-time heart-miner. Five-time Emmy award watcher. 25-time why-am-I-still-here monitor. Wristwatch checker. It's 4:55 and—holy shit—I still need to deliver these eggrolls to these dreg-holes. I'm in Generic Bad Area, NJ, 66666. Homeless wanderer just approached me at a stoplight. I dropped a couple shekels in his coffee can, so all my sins are henceforth forgiven.
Wait, that's not a cop, right?
Wednesday, December 19, 2018
Poker Facist
Chef Cele serving up b-sides like fucking mini-tacos over here. Antipasto from the family Costco. Cele is the high roller at the local $1/$2. Making pot-sized bets with 27o while I'm folding JJ like a boss. I told him to quit overbetting; I'm over here sweating while he's shredding more money than he's netting. Down $500 but them's pennies to him. 50 thousand to be precise. He's on the button—on his phone nuttin'—calls a big bluff and wakes up with the nuts. Checks AA and then checks out the dealer's DDs. She's got the implants but they still make his pants dance. Move it along you fucking hornballs. These 60-year-old nit limpers trying to get back home in time for the latest Castle re-run. Cele down to 100 bigs after he got outflopped by the James Harden of small-stakes. This guy's a fucking lunatic. Grey-bearded and black silk haired—sitting cross-legged in his chair; has a flair to three-bet with bottom pair. I'm the fuckin' Dr. Seuss of gritty-nitty table observations. "Get off your phone, Joseph," I appeal to my comrade. He's shit-posting on Twitter and giving away hand information—which I believe to be illegal? Look down at my hand: it's a monster. Big nuts with the works. Flop cums: Ace of Hearts (nice); Seven of Diamonds (brick city); Queen of Spades (very cute). Check my monster and, well, it grew a couple of inches. Old greybeard staring at his fucking shriveled nards and probably thinking he's got somethin'. He checks to me, and right next to me, Celest is weak but bets the next street. I know he thinks he's good here, but I gotta set the kid straight. Runout is clean as a whistle: fire my loaded cockgun into these cockgobbling pot-ogling doinks. Bada bing. 2 folds and a call. My AK has been emptied, and this fucking idiot's 47o has morphed into a bigger monster. River coddled his dumb-ass like an overprotective parent. Throw my chipstack at his (fake) sickpack; skip the chit-chat and git the fuck out 'n don't come back. Cele escorting me out in between motherfucking and lucky duckling accusatory slander. That's not slander ... just a bit of friendly banter. Expressed with a loving candor—hold the pander. F-bombs in glorious theatric aplomb. Good night; we are gone!
Aight where we heading next?
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
Mandatory Mandarin
Firing empty blog bullets to win the blog Pulitz. Notebook full of decorated crushes serenaded by very-dated paintbrushes. Don't faint—blushes. Took out a few Hearts two months too soon. Too blunt to swoon. Three drunk at noon. Note to self: the red lines are for your own good. The new Lil Peach is fucking nutritious. They're called clementines, you know. It's like my own editor doesn't even read the Fork.
Like I said: Pitchfork. They ignited King Peach as the new Fruitbearer and who am I to disagree? This blog is the struggling street vendor that gets run over in the latest Bay film. Whereas the local Cost Co-op just got an 8.9 from Big Citrus. All we can do here is farm new ideas; crêpe minds are here to sweeten the deal. I'm seeking a $200,000 loan for 4% equity and a new editor who has a special connection to the modern 12-year-old. Security, please, it was quite obvious what I meant. These vulnerable youths aren't going to market to themselves. Who am I to say that this old-ass blog wouldn't work better as a Minecraft reaction video? Who am I to say that the rest of this post shouldn't be mandatory DLC?
...[A]tlanta's own Lil Peach, hailing from some part of Southern California, but like—he's probably been to the ATL no? Fuck man, how'm I supposed to write this review without a press release? Fuck this shit Ryan, I'm off to Uproxx or some sh...It's crazy that they published this tantrum in the modern blog-climate. Dude didn't even know where the best orange rapper of 2K18 was from.
Like I said: Pitchfork. They ignited King Peach as the new Fruitbearer and who am I to disagree? This blog is the struggling street vendor that gets run over in the latest Bay film. Whereas the local Cost Co-op just got an 8.9 from Big Citrus. All we can do here is farm new ideas; crêpe minds are here to sweeten the deal. I'm seeking a $200,000 loan for 4% equity and a new editor who has a special connection to the modern 12-year-old. Security, please, it was quite obvious what I meant. These vulnerable youths aren't going to market to themselves. Who am I to say that this old-ass blog wouldn't work better as a Minecraft reaction video? Who am I to say that the rest of this post shouldn't be mandatory DLC?
Thank you for your generous contribution. Lil Peach has been unlocked.
Stats
Attack: 10/10
Defense: 10/10
Weaknesses: Some nerd will call you "OP" because his broke lil bitch-ass can't afford to use mommy's credit card to compete with the big boys.
Thank you, kids. Check your Steam account for a generous 1% off coupon for your next purchase over $100. Fortnite rulez.
Monday, December 10, 2018
Streamer Dreamer
Amanda please; Amanda pleas. I'm a fan of your work—your "work". Work work work; live-stream my 10 a.m. workout and grab a few sub-bites before the lunchtime rush. Stream the dog; zoom; get those pearly blues in there. Those eyelids with crusty sleeplets of lost love. Pop music blaring in the background, uncaring with flat sound. Hit the Follow button and don't click away just—"the giveaway has ended"—so, thanks again for supporting the channel. You're incredibly welcome; sub-only chat in five minutes; who schedules that? Three more subs until you unlock my bedroom closet. Did I mishear or—CLICK HERE—aaaaand there goeth my PayPal doeth. She was adopted from a local shelter. Moderator? I barely tolerate her. Follow; rate her. Swallow haters and coddle donators. These lurkers are just jerk-ers. Staff has entered the chat-room. Chat-room has left; be back soon. Game poll; I don't want to play the same 'ol same 'ol. I'm just gonna talk 'til my lungs fall out. Thanks for the 69 bits WitchTwit (tongue-twist me). No problem (drunk; kiss me). Gonna have to mute you; next time use Whisper, Mister! Awkward moment but I thought he owned it. Gave her another 69 and served his time. One sub away from the Big Reveal. Moderators standing by. Hair-flipped into nail pat-pat-pat (true combo). Balloon emojis for YungWiggles! He was numero finale. Mr. Wiggles, check your inbox. Guys, give Wiggles your snuggliest tingles. She really needs to lose the cutesy cat-cent. Whisper Wigs, "Congrats on the sex." See you guys tomorrow.
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