King shit of Fuck Mountain. Concubine, rent boy, fuck page, all fitting titles for me these days. And here they come, hit after hit after hit after hit. Same old tired as shit, about love and hurt and feelings that don’t really exist. And this matters? Does this matter? Everyone’s wants and needs are just a monetary pattern. But surely no one wants to hear me take a piss about living under cops and pricey fucking rent and how money that’s not mine is money well spent and how fucking too fast leaves that dick hurt and bent and how taking all these drugs makes me look trim and fit, and how i’d just fuck myself if I had my own clit.