Surfin' you, ese

It is getting toward the end of September and I have just now noticed outside of the window leaves that are not green because I do not go outside quite often enough. I know that I like to walk in the world but sometimes the notion is just decadent or timid or functionally callipygian if you fetishize sitting on your ass.

Self-deplorably deprecating sex you're hating wrecks complacency rates off the oft-timid seldom debated don't seltzer his face until the welts are visible from adolescent testosterone testimony resting upon soft imagined egress reflexes tethered to sexual reckoning and perceptions of beckoning ecstasy pending, lectures resplendent in self-effervescent erection of flesh and contortion of stress into revenue to be spent on you as you were meant to do without contemptible prowess-fearing falling foul into steganography locking the key away; often the people say we are not here for the reasons you claim while the human consumers shamelessly reign lavishly again, same as when we were dirt-scraping men owning and stoning women or keeping their onus at home hoping loneliness promotes Stockholm syndrome to lock the windows and soften the fists' blows so it won't risk showing nosy locals those wrist-controlling moments before you choke her some more for ownership glory to mask loathsome inferiority and broken theories.