I was only nine years old. I loved Shrek so much, I had all the merchandise and movies. I'd pray to Shrek every night before I go to bed, thanking for the life I've been given. "Shrek is love", I would say, "Shrek is life". My dad hears me and calls me a faggot. I knew he was just jealous for my devotion of Shrek. I called him a cunt. He slaps me and sends me to go to sleep. I'm crying now and my face hurts. I lay in bed and it's really cold. A warmth is moving towards me. I feel something touch me. It's Shrek. I'm so happy. He whispers in my ear, "This is my swamp". He grabs me with his powerful ogre hands, and puts me on my hands and knees. I spread my ass-cheeks for Shrek. He penetrates my butthole. It hurts so much, but I do it for Shrek. I can feel my butt tearing as my eyes start to water. I push against his force. I want to please Shrek. He roars a mighty roar, as he fills my butt with his love. My dad walks in. Shrek looks him straight in the eye, and says, "It's all ogre now". Shrek leaves through my window. Shrek is love. Shrek is life.๏ปฟ
I used to be a real ad
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Natalie Portman is the reason I work out
Natalie Portman is the reason I work out. I have this fantasy where we start talking at the Vanity Fair Oscars party bar. We exchange a few pleasantries. She asks what I do. I say I loved her in New Girl. She laughs. I get my drink.
"Well, see ya," I say and walk away. I've got her attention now. How many guys voluntarily leave a conversation with Natalie Portman? She touches her neck as she watches me leave.
Later, as the night's dragged on and the coterie of gorgeous narcissists grows increasingly loose, she finds me on the balcony, my bowtie undone, smoking a cigarette.
"Got a spare?" she asks.
"What's in it for me?" I say as I hand her one of my little white ladies. She smiles.
"Conversation with me, duh."
I laugh.
"What's so funny?" she protests.
"Nothing, nothing... It's just... don't you grow tired of the egos?"
"You get used to it," she says, lighting her cigarette and handing me back the lighter.
"What would you do if you weren't an actress?" I ask.
"Teaching, I think."
"And if I was your student, what would I be learning?"
"Discipline," she says quickly, looking up into my eyes, before changing the subject. "Where are you from?"
"Bermuda," I say.
"Oh wow. That's lovely."
"It's ok," I admit. "Not everything is to my liking."
"What could possibly be not to your liking in Bermuda?" she inquires.
"I don't like sand," I tell her. "It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere."
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AYAYA RUNNING LOW ON CUTIES
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MOSHI MOSHI ๐ 
RUNNING LOW ON CUTIES ๐ NEED BACKUP ๐ ARIGATO ๐
RUNNING LOW ON CUTIES ๐ NEED BACKUP ๐ ARIGATO ๐
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Weebs
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Response to "go fuck yourself"
What if I'm already fucking myself? Behind this simple insult hides a universal paradox that may put your sexuality in question. Let's do a simple thought experiment: imagine us two standing in front of each other. I, of course, am wearing a pair of jeans, that are covering my genitals and my butt. You then command me to "go fuck myself". I may be fucking myself already. I may as well not be fucking myself already. Until my dick and its position relative to my ass is observed, it is simultaneously in my ass, but also outside of it - thus, it stays in superposition. The moment you lay eyes on my penis, both states collide with each other and become either one. You may have already guessed what the problem here is. As soon as a single photon reflected by my dick enters either one of your eyes, you become gay. The only way to avoid this is to not observe my penis. But if you don't look at it, then you will never know if your insult had any effect, thus rendering it meaningless. Since you have already made the insult, you are now, too, in superposition - you're either wrong, or gay. It's unfortunate, really - you dug a hole for yourself without even knowing it. All you can do now is accept it, and learn from your mistakes.
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American website, American computers, American game
Why is six afraid of seven? Six hasn't been the same since he left Vietnam
Why is six afraid of seven?
Six hasn't been the same since he left Vietnam. He can seldom close his eyes without opening them again at fear of Charlies lurking in the jungle trees. Not that you could ever see the bastards, mind you. They were swift, and they knew their way around the jungle like nothing else. He remembers the looks on the boys' faces as he walked into that village and... oh, Jesus. The memories seldom left him, either. Sometimes he'd reminisce - even hear - Tex's southern drawl. He remembers the smell of Brooklyn's cigarettes like nothing else. He always kept a pack of Lucky's with him. The boys are gone, now. He knows that; it's just that he forgets, sometimes. And, every now and then, the way that seven looks at him with avid concern in his eyes... it makes him think. Sets him on edge. Makes him feel like he's back there... in the jungle.