It's me again...Margaret
Hi ya'll!
I've spent a lot of time out of commission lately health wise but I'll spare you the gory details...and trust me, ALL of the details ARE quite gory.
Anyway, I'm here and finally feeling well enough to think up something to write about. Now remember, I have been ill so don't expect my best work, but trust that I still have it going on. (Whatever the hell that means.)
I'm actually having a pretty decent night, the best in weeks, so here I am. First, let me say how shocked I am over Marie Osmond's recent loss. It's dreadful and this women has been through more than most. I truly feel for her and her family. My prayers to my own personal higher power are with them.
So, as I try to remember what it was that I came here to say, let me mention that I'm very frustrated at this moment because I have an eigth of ICE weed and my bong is packed with the stuff and my lighter only lights every 23 times you click the mother fucker. So, since lighting a bong on a gas stove is a bad idea considering the angle you'd have to maintain, (and remember, before you read my concern...I'm only a girl) it might pose a problem. Chances are pretty good that I'd kill the fire when I tip over the bong and it'll sizzle and the house would smell like scalded bong water. One way or another, smoking this killer weed is posing to be quite a problem.
But...of this you can be sure...as God is my witness...I will get this ganja king smoked before I lie down to fantasize about Michael Madsen. Of course, if I smoke enough, I might accidentally finding myself fantasizing about Steve Carell, Maxwell Smart or Barney Rubble. At some point I would come to my senses of course...unless Carell is a stud amongst studs. Of course, it's MY fantasy, duh...I could just create a man among men, Herculean, Sex God of Planet Earth out of Carell. But something tells me that no matter how much I smoke, don't smoke, drink, don't drink, that fantasising about Steve Carell is never going to take me all the way and I'd simply end up with a sore arm...afflicted by pussy wrist. It's similar to carpel tunnel syndrome but there is no cure. Just an occasionally relief. That is, of course, if you keep Steve Carell out of your sexual fantasies.
Speaking of sex...I had an interesting experience the other day. I had been feeling poorly but during a short lived up-feeling that struck me Sunday morning, I got frisky. Thor said he had given up hope of any weekend horizontal boppery due to my illness. But...I was in the hospital the week and a half before so this was my first shot in a month.
First he took his clothes off and jumped in bed. I quickly noticed that he had left on the one piece of clothing that MUST come off...especially when you've already lost 98.9% of your other clothes. Anyway, I told him to get those jockeys off and he said that I couldn't get my clothes off any faster.
Oh...he of little faith.
He agreed with my official time...3 seconds. First I rolled back enough to pull my pants AND panties off in 1.3 seconds. Then, I rolled back up and reached behind my back and pulled my top off in 1.7 seconds. He was amazed.
To be fair, I wasn't wearing a bra. But...it was one helluva stripping record nevertheless. I'd be happy to hear from any women who can beat that. Men can't, they have to check their wallets lest their date steal the 18 bucks that they inevitably have stuffed in there.
Anyway, after the stripping race (and my undisputed Championship of THAT contest), as planned, sex ensued.
We played around for a while and then he made his move south. I was so giddy that I giggled and assured him that "today we have an ALL YOU CAN EAT SPECIAL!" I was as tickled as I could be. I had unsuccessfully tried masturbating earlier that morning before he woke up but it didn't work. I can't blame Steve Carell for that one...I'm in a fantasy transition and I haven't quite decided on the proper crazy sex stuff that I'd never do for my next fantasy serial.
Anyway, just as I'm getting into the "right frame of mind"...the Norwegian in him called him back north and before I knew what had stopped hitting me, I found myself staring at my own stupid face in the mirror on the ceiling wondering what the hell had just happened. (Great things, those mirrors. You can lie flat on your back and still see The Tonight Show.)
Now, you can look at this a few different ways. You could say that I should have told him to get his Speedy Gonzales tongue back where it had just come from and finish what he started. You could even say that he never should have stopped so soon in the first place.
But I have my own idea. I give a hell of a 90 second blow job.
I've spent a lot of time out of commission lately health wise but I'll spare you the gory details...and trust me, ALL of the details ARE quite gory.
Anyway, I'm here and finally feeling well enough to think up something to write about. Now remember, I have been ill so don't expect my best work, but trust that I still have it going on. (Whatever the hell that means.)
I'm actually having a pretty decent night, the best in weeks, so here I am. First, let me say how shocked I am over Marie Osmond's recent loss. It's dreadful and this women has been through more than most. I truly feel for her and her family. My prayers to my own personal higher power are with them.
So, as I try to remember what it was that I came here to say, let me mention that I'm very frustrated at this moment because I have an eigth of ICE weed and my bong is packed with the stuff and my lighter only lights every 23 times you click the mother fucker. So, since lighting a bong on a gas stove is a bad idea considering the angle you'd have to maintain, (and remember, before you read my concern...I'm only a girl) it might pose a problem. Chances are pretty good that I'd kill the fire when I tip over the bong and it'll sizzle and the house would smell like scalded bong water. One way or another, smoking this killer weed is posing to be quite a problem.
But...of this you can be sure...as God is my witness...I will get this ganja king smoked before I lie down to fantasize about Michael Madsen. Of course, if I smoke enough, I might accidentally finding myself fantasizing about Steve Carell, Maxwell Smart or Barney Rubble. At some point I would come to my senses of course...unless Carell is a stud amongst studs. Of course, it's MY fantasy, duh...I could just create a man among men, Herculean, Sex God of Planet Earth out of Carell. But something tells me that no matter how much I smoke, don't smoke, drink, don't drink, that fantasising about Steve Carell is never going to take me all the way and I'd simply end up with a sore arm...afflicted by pussy wrist. It's similar to carpel tunnel syndrome but there is no cure. Just an occasionally relief. That is, of course, if you keep Steve Carell out of your sexual fantasies.
Speaking of sex...I had an interesting experience the other day. I had been feeling poorly but during a short lived up-feeling that struck me Sunday morning, I got frisky. Thor said he had given up hope of any weekend horizontal boppery due to my illness. But...I was in the hospital the week and a half before so this was my first shot in a month.
First he took his clothes off and jumped in bed. I quickly noticed that he had left on the one piece of clothing that MUST come off...especially when you've already lost 98.9% of your other clothes. Anyway, I told him to get those jockeys off and he said that I couldn't get my clothes off any faster.
Oh...he of little faith.
He agreed with my official time...3 seconds. First I rolled back enough to pull my pants AND panties off in 1.3 seconds. Then, I rolled back up and reached behind my back and pulled my top off in 1.7 seconds. He was amazed.
To be fair, I wasn't wearing a bra. But...it was one helluva stripping record nevertheless. I'd be happy to hear from any women who can beat that. Men can't, they have to check their wallets lest their date steal the 18 bucks that they inevitably have stuffed in there.
Anyway, after the stripping race (and my undisputed Championship of THAT contest), as planned, sex ensued.
We played around for a while and then he made his move south. I was so giddy that I giggled and assured him that "today we have an ALL YOU CAN EAT SPECIAL!" I was as tickled as I could be. I had unsuccessfully tried masturbating earlier that morning before he woke up but it didn't work. I can't blame Steve Carell for that one...I'm in a fantasy transition and I haven't quite decided on the proper crazy sex stuff that I'd never do for my next fantasy serial.
Anyway, just as I'm getting into the "right frame of mind"...the Norwegian in him called him back north and before I knew what had stopped hitting me, I found myself staring at my own stupid face in the mirror on the ceiling wondering what the hell had just happened. (Great things, those mirrors. You can lie flat on your back and still see The Tonight Show.)
Now, you can look at this a few different ways. You could say that I should have told him to get his Speedy Gonzales tongue back where it had just come from and finish what he started. You could even say that he never should have stopped so soon in the first place.
But I have my own idea. I give a hell of a 90 second blow job.
posted by Meg Kelso | 9:39 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home