Calabar

anythingbuttpure:

bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls:

I don’t know how you cunts do it.

In a way, you’re my life’s work, a puzzle I was built to ponder. I’ve spent years listening to you and analyzing your conflicted, constricted, and convoluted thoughts; you’re all such sad little knots, awaiting an Alexander to untangle you with the edge of a blade. I learn something new every time one of you comes apart for me.

But I’ll never truly, viscerally understand how you manage it, how you turn the sundering of your mystery and the exposition of your shame into abject, sobbing need. I suspect the answers will forever elude me.

Fortunately, a wet hole is its own special solace.

*Secretly wondering what it would be like to kneel and lick your shoes greedily* 😍

I’ve really missed you, ya little freak.

I’ve never been one to use my feet in a kink context. But since you were last here, I’ve kicked a Tumblr girl in the cunt, cut her off mid-sentence by smushing her stupid face with my foot, and, y’know… stepped on her throat a little. Haven’t made anyone lick my shoes, though.

With that said, I do have a new pair of Timberlands. And while the box didn’t say so explicitly, I think they’re slut-proof.

So hope springs eternal. 😁

difficulty score

Anonymous:

do you ever check your tumblr messages?

Not as often as I should. I’ve left it set to “anyone can message” for a long time now, and it’s resulted in me being swamped and losing track of conversations I actually want to have. Feh. Enough of that. I’ve officially switched it to “only Tumblrs you follow can message”.

Those who are looking to introduce themselves can do so via an Ask… just mention if you’d prefer I keep your questions and/or fangirly nonsense private.

Coralline zone:

(707) 675-8481:

bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls:

Short Stories

“When did your ankles get thick?” he asked.

She frowned.

“I— all I said was ‘good morning’…”

He placed his coffee cup on the counter.

“Really? I wasn’t listening.”

This makes me so sad EVERY time I see it, without fail.

Aw, you poor little pile of nonsense! Allow me to cheer you up with a fairy tale.

the kind prince: Ngh.

the nothing girl: Ow!

tkp: Ngh!

tng: Owowowow!

tkp: Okay, whose bright fucking idea was it to try and put boots on this bitch?

tng: I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!

tkp: Fuck it, someone go find a slipper.

(781) 729-7049

Anonymous:

So anyway how does one get your attention without making a fool of herself

Oh, sweetie… you’re looking at this all wrong! Making a fool of yourself is pretty much the only ice-breaker that has ever worked with me.

I mean, once you’ve made me aware of your existence, and I’ve indicated that I find said existence pleasing in some way, then making a pathetic, fangirly overture is your best next step. Idiot the Elder spent years telling me how wonderful I am and musing to me about the scary men in the world that made her think of me, before finally just throwing herself at me like a needy little mess. Idiot the Younger did little public happy dances every time I deigned to acknowledge her, and privately blathered on about how brilliant I am just to keep me talking, because talking to me was the best thing in the world. It’s hard to overstate how ridiculous they allowed themselves to look… seriously, the fawning adulation would have been terribly sad, except (a) they’re cunts, and (b) when cunts do sad things for my entertainment they stop seeming so sad. (Handy, how that works.)

Which means my advice is this: just give in and humiliate yourself. Over and over, making a display of your desperation, until you’ve embarrassed yourself so thoroughly that I can’t help stopping to watch the spectacle.

Easy-peasy.

bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls:

I don’t know how you cunts do it.

In a way, you’re my life’s work, a puzzle I was built to ponder. I’ve spent years listening to you and analyzing your conflicted, constricted, and convoluted thoughts; you’re all such sad little knots, awaiting an Alexander to untangle you with the edge of a blade. I learn something new every time one of you comes apart for me.

But I’ll never truly, viscerally understand how you manage it, how you turn the sundering of your mystery and the exposition of your shame into abject, sobbing need. I suspect the answers will forever elude me.

Fortunately, a wet hole is its own special solace.

(780) 607-2045

bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls:

—TRIGGER WARNING—

You can keep screaming, but they’re not turning the car around. Mommy and Daddy don’t want you anymore, not as you are. They don’t want to see your face again until you’ve been fixed.

It’s a shame, of course… you and I both know there’s nothing wrong with being a lesbian, and it’s insane that they hate that part of you with such fervor. But they do. They’re just horrible people, your parents. They could have had a happy, healthy, productive young woman for a daughter, but they’re willing to kill all of the potential within you just so no one ever finds out their sick, sinful child has fallen in love with her roommate’s pussy.

Their attitudes honestly annoy me, so when they first offered you up, I politely rejected their job offer, explaining that what I do to my “visitors” out here in the country, well… it’s not something you do to a loved one. But they were persistent, and assured me that as long as you remain a “filthy dyke slut,” you don’t qualify for any sort of love. They also upped their offer to everything in your college fund and the title to your mom’s Lexus, which ultimately swayed me.

I know, it seems like I caved pretty easily. But you’ve got to understand that I’ve learned many things about people in my line of work. When someone’s willing to pay that much to have a girl reconfigured, experience tells me they’re pretty damned determined, and determined people…? Baby, they get shit done. If I’d told them “no,” your angry, bitter old man and that shark-eyed hate-machine of a mother would have handed you over to some Jesus-powered re-education clinic; I couldn’t have that, could I?

A self-confident, empowered little queer like you… I think you deserve to be turned into a straight girl by a man who respects everything you’re losing.

Just checked the mail and found a box of stuff I left behind at Idiot Jr’s apartment, and found she’d included a nice Happy Thanksgiving card. I thought it was sweet.

Until I noticed that absolutely nowhere in the list of things she was thankful for did she mention the flavor and bouquet of my piss.

Millennials are rude sometimes.

Her: Mr Bbbbbb! Gym is *killing* me! It’s almost being as mean as you ☹️

Me: What did Gym say to you, pumpkin? Did he touch you? Here, use this scale model to show me where he touched you!

Her: omg…. wow…. that hit me in spots way more painful than Gym does 😭