Hello, my long lost kittens. It's been a while. Since that squirrelly Bush won the election, it seems my own personal apocalypse has begun. During my recess, my life has descended into the pits of a drunken dyke soap opera consisting of bar room pseudo-brawls, band break-ups, vicious rumors, passed judgments and--
Look, that's not the reason I'm back. If you've been reading me, you know that facing the truth of my own horrors is, um, not a priority. What is? Porn, people. Porn.
So my triumphant return will herald the announcement of a new era: last night, tittie-swinging porn star Sasha Brabuster entered my dreams. I had worked on a photo of her from Vegas' porn convention earlier this week, and, by God, she wins the award for having crossed the line from a general surreal reality to my personal surreal subconscious.
Unfortunately, the dream was not sexy. (That will certainly warrant another entry. I promise.) At this point, I'm just excited that porn stars have traversed the threshold, because if my life is to be a drunken dyke soap opera, at least my dreams can have Sasha Brabuster.
She was in a restaurant, and I talked to her about life, porn and those baby blue eyes. Ooooh. Aaaaah.
Other news from the porn convention... Both my latex lusty mama M*asuimi and guy-with-a-pussy Buck A*ngel sent me mad love through one of our writers in attendance. I don't even think my boss knew I had interviewed them, but it was nice to get props from somewhere.
So, yup, the machine progresses. I am but a tool of the devil.