Since I stopped taking the yellow ones my mind has cleared. I've removed the hold I put on my plans for global domination and decided to work on the more malleable younger generation. Concentrating on knobs and the good old days hasn't got me anywhere. I've got to become more diverse. More female friendly. Starting off small of course. I can't completely ditch knobs or the good old days. So if there are any female, woman, ladies out there, who are reading the sordid crap I write, this is for you. Although to fully reminisce you have to be of a certain age. Old enough to remember sanitary products from the past. Back when, if you were on your menses, there were only 2 possibilities. Both of them a bit nautical in my humble opinion. Yes I'm well aware that back then, if you were having a period, you either had to stuff a cotton wool canoe in your panties or a torpedo up your lady cave.
(The copyright to this image is the property of Etsy.)
Feminine hygiene products were in their infancy. Having only been discovered a thousand years before. Let's be honest, it was because men were making all the decisions without consulting anyone without a penis. What would women know about periods, childbirth or riding a bicycle? Their ovaries got in the way. They'd only cry if you asked them for their opinions on anything not connected to their shoe buying glands. It's a thing they have. I read a book about it. Written in 1853. So it was quite recent where mens studying of women's needs are concerned. Of course there were women who wrote about women's needs. Nobody of any importance read them. It was produced by ovaries, pay no attention.
I love women. If they'll let me. I wouldn't have sex with anything else, if women would let me have sex with them. Only universally they don't. They have these strange things called a sense of smell and eyesight. If not for that I'd be a veritable Casanova as far as the fairer sex are concerned. I wouldn't force myself on a woman. Not in front of witnesses anyway. Although I have forced myself on a lot of men. I love the way they wriggle and squirm. So you aren't gay. Well neither am I. I'm still going to fuck you up the ass. There's nothing gay about that, let me assure you. And being the thoughtful lover I am I always carry plenty of good old days tampons. So I stuff it up the rectum to soak up all that blood. Their tears are another story. I find they energize me.
There I go again. Lowest common denominator. I start off with noble intentions, then slip back into smut. I'm a man. That means I have flaws. And as a man, I don't really give a fuck about them. Or emotions for that matter. I'm just a cauldron of testosterone waiting to erupt all over whatever doesn't do exactly what I want it to do. I could be out there solving problems or doing good deeds. But I'm not. Instead I'm sitting in the garden shed masturbating. It's my hormones. They make me moody and illogical. Only when I get moody and illogical I don't cry. I go out and punch someone smaller and weaker than me. Alternatively I'll shout a lot at anyone who can't retaliate.
Well there you go. Another disjointed, tangential brain fart. Delivered fresh to your internet browser. Are browsers still a thing? I don't know, I'm old. The world's moving too fast. I just get used to a piece of software and they change the user interface. When I see a computer on an office desk these days all I can do is shit in the wastepaper basket. It's become a Pavlovian response. I think I might be coming down with technophobia. There's a lot of it about in people of my age. It's not like the good old days when everything technical had knobs. Oh right. I'm going to have to scoot right now. The person whose computer I'm using is coming back from lunch. I can't risk him linking the turd in his wastepaper basket with me.