Sunday, August 28, 2016

Procrastination Will Inherit the Earth

   This week's Flash Fiction Challenge is Behold The Idiomatic!  All I can say is, where has this website been all my (online) life?  This is amazing!  If your actions tell who you really are, then I'm the UNIVERSAL GRAND FUCKING CHAMPION OF PROCRASTINATION! *Raises a glass to toast no one in particular.*
   Anywho, here's my contribution to the world of creative literature:

Procrastination Will Inherit the Earth -- That Is, Whatever's Left of It

   Leslie hit the alarm clock for what must have been the fifteenth time that day.
   With one swift move, she pulled the covers over her head, blocking out the sinister sunshine that penetrated into her room, piercing her eyes with its mirthfully sadistic beams.  Just a few more blissful minutes of rest.
   "Fuhuhuck! I fucking heard you the first time," she whined, batting at the nagging alarm clock.  Whoever decided the general public needed to work between the hours of 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. was a sick, twisted fuck.
   Leslie groaned as she rolled out of bed, her eyes rolling to the back of her head.  As she weaved back and forth under the shower head, last night's one too many cocktails exacting its revenge with agonizing pressure inside her head, she realized she still had a personal day she could use.
   Fuck it, she thought, I'm calling in.
   After she dried off, savoring the thought of crawling back into her warm, cozy bed and going back to sleep, a deep sense of satisfaction enveloped her like a cocoon.  Leslie was not leaving the house.  Not today.
   She picked up the phone with a barely controllable glee, and dialed the human resources extension. No one picked up.  This day could not possibly get better.
   "Hi, this is Leslie.  I'm taking a personal day today.  I'll be back tomorrow."
   And with that, she hung up and set her phone to silent.  So fucking easy.
   This was going to be a wonderful day.  No bullshit office politics.  No micromanaging middle management to hover over her cubicle.  No unconscionable assholes stealing her yogurt from the fridge.
   The bed called to her.  Its fluffy comforter, memory foam pillows, and lavender-scented sheets were so inviting.  She found her eye mask, hastily tossed to the floor in her drunken clumsiness from the night before, and slid it over her eyes as she wrapped herself up in her comfy surroundings.
   Four hours later, Leslie stretched and yawned. It was midmorning, and there were mimosas to be enjoyed.  She made herself a cocktail, logged on to World of Warcraft, and set about the business of battling monsters.
   Three hours and four mimosas later, she decided to get some food in her stomach.  She ordered some pizza, and went to the couch to binge watch a show on Netflix.
   When the doorbell rang, Leslie suddenly realized she was still in her boxy black-and-white polk-a-dot pajamas.  This was the first time since she graduated that she could remember being in her PJs all day, and it felt fucking fantastic.
   She went to the door with no shame for her disheveled appearance.  This must be what it's like to be a man, she thought to herself.  Zero fucks given. 
   If the delivery guy was surprised by her appearance, he did a good job of hiding it.  She double-checked the pizza for accuracy, and then tipped him ten dollars.
   "Are you off work today?" he asked.
   Leslie smiled.
   "Uh, yeah.  Is it that obvious?"
   "You're lucky you didn't have to go anywhere today," he explained.  "There was a huge meteor that leveled some buildings over at highways 17 and 86.  I had to take a different route to get to work."
   "Oh wow!  Did you see which buildings?  I work over by there!"
   "No, I'm sorry.  But it's all over the news."
   "OK.  I'll check it out.  Drive safe," Leslie said as she closed the door.
   She turned on the news, and, sure enough, her office high-rise building was reduced to a stump, belching out smoke and flames.  Eyes wide and mouth gaping, Leslie held a slice of pizza in suspension as a reporter described the scene.
   Oh, shit, she thought to herself as she watched the update.
   "... coming out of the building.  First responders are unable to confirm any survivors."
   After a minute of watching in stunned silence, cheese sliding off of the hot slice she still held in mid-air, Leslie came out of her spell and took a frantic bite of the comfort junk food.
   Chewing slowly as she listened to witness accounts, Leslie learned that no one had survived.  She felt terrible.  Not so much for the loss of life, because she felt nothing.
   One one hand, she knew she should be devastated at the loss of her coworkers.  But, really and truly, they were all just a bunch of condescending, passive-aggressive, gossiping bitches she couldn't stand.  She never received an invitation to hang out with them.  (But that never stopped them from discussing all the fun they were going to have on Sunday Funday, or making a big deal over their past adventures, right the fuck in front of her, as if to rub in the fact that she wasn't part of their clique.)
   She never cared for the bullshit.  She didn't kiss up to the lead bitch, and she may have, on one or more occasions, been a little less tactful than they cared for.  Apparently, in their minds, all of these social crimes warranted exiling her from their circle.  She tried not to let it bother her, but being in a new city with no prior connections there made her personal life a lot more solitary than she cared for.
   And now, they were all gone.  If her sense of duty and adult responsibility had overridden her overwhelming sense of dread in regards to that day, she would have died, too.  It was eery, realizing how making a decision most people would have frowned upon, was the very thing that saved her life.  As if the same instincts that tell farm animals when it's about to storm were warning her that morning that something terrible was coming.
   Maybe she should feel guilty.  That's what a good person would do at this moment, right?
   But all Leslie could feel was relieved.  The cognitive dissonance was more than she cared to deal with right now.  She was too drunk to think about anything.
   She opened up a bottle of Reisling, grabbed another slice, and switched the TV to Netflix to binge watch another great show.

Friday, July 1, 2016

Things that Go Bump in the Night, Should Be the Least of Your Worries

   This week's Flash Fiction Challenge is about Insomnia, something I've struggled with for decades.  This is very familiar ground for me.  So, without further ado, here's my contribution for the week (CW, 18+):

Things that Go Bump in the Night, Should Be the Least of Your Worries

   2:36 a.m.
   Alicia glared at the harsh light of the alarm clock, set to go off in exactly three hours and twenty-four minutes.
   "Fuuuuucccccckkkkkkk," she whispered with exasperation into the otherwise dark and empty room.  The barely audible curse floated up to the vaulted ceiling in a silent prayer of desperation, then slowly returned to sender.
   It grew larger as it came back down to her, ultimately enveloping her in a shroud of silent rage.
   Every moment that passed seemed like a cruel instrument of torment, each minute lingering for maximum agony, as if the gods themselves were gaining sadistic pleasure from the abject state of misery she suffered every night.
   Seething with frustration, she tossed and turned.
   Alicia had used every trick in the book to try to get some damned sleep.  And every single damned one failed her miserably.  
   Counting sheep? ... Nope.  She even tried advanced algorithms with the sheep, manipulating them to create ellipses and complex polygons.  The sheep were obedient to her every mathematical whim, but still proved to be ineffectual. 
   And while nighttime yoga may have been helpful for others, the only benefit she reaped was increased flexibility.  Which, in turn, gave her a few new configurations for tossing and turning her exhausted body at night.
   She tried bubble baths, nightcaps, hypnosis -- but nothing proved to be helpful.  Melatonin and Nyquil proved to be temporary fixes which ultimately created more frustration as their efficacy peaked, then quickly diminished.
   Finally, after begging for a solution, her primary physician reluctantly suggested a new medicine. 
   That night, her attempt at rest was a disappointment, just like every night for as long as she could remember. 
   Unable to fall asleep after taking her prescription sleep aid, Alicia found herself in a bizarre state of mind.
   She ended up in a heated debate with her cat, Mr. Fluffaluffagus. 
   "I fucking told you, Mr. F!  Schroedinger's Cat was both alive and dead!  ...  No, I don't know why he didn't choose a dog!  ...  Are you actually offended by that theory?"
   "Well, I just don't think it was a good analogy for ANYTHING," the cat snidely replied.  
   The debate escalated as the night went on, and became so intense that her neighbors came to the door, demanding to know who she was arguing with.  They were well aware that she lived alone, and that her love life was non-existent.  
   Alicia lied and said she was rehearsing for a play, and they threatened to call the police the next time it happened.  She closed the door, relieved that they finally left, and turned to see Mr. Fluffaluffagus glaring at her with smug satisfaction. 
   Damned cat, thinks he's so much better than me.
   Alicia sank down in her wing-back chair and buried her head in her hands, shortly before passing out.  
   The next morning, she couldn't remember how she got there, or why her cat seemed so resentful toward her.
   The rest of the day was beyond surreal.  Reality and fantasy seemed to blur together, with no real delineation between the two.  
   She figured it was just an adjustment period for the medicine.
   That night, things became even stranger.
   Colors seemed more vivid, eliciting a sense of elation as she explored the depths of a particularly enchanting rabbit hole.  She laughed uncontrollably as she traipsed through the wonderful land.
   Nothing in this fantastical world made sense, but she had resigned to the fact that nothing actually needed to make sense any more.  Everything that her life was before -- the string of devastating losses, the agonizing isolation that followed -- fell away as she went further and further down this hole.
   All that mattered now was the journey, and the adventures she would have along the way.
   After all the tension, being so tightly wound that even her closest friends couldn't stand to be near her, Alicia had found a moment of self-awareness and realization.
   Deep inside, she had become like a cage that imprisoned the tiniest and cutest of animals.  No one around her could see through to what was inside; all they knew was the cold, metal frame on the outside.
   Before tonight, she didn't know how to show the world who she really was.  She didn't know how to free all the lovable, furry creatures that dwelled within.
   But now, she knew what to do.
   In the surreal land, she climbed to the top of the highest mountain to reveal to the world what she had hidden inside for so long.
   Alicia found the key to the cage, and as she slowly turned it, the adorable creatures were squealing and dancing with anticipation for the freedom they had never known.  The more she turned the key, the more excited they became.
   She never knew how many fluffy animals had been bound up inside, not until she gathered the courage to free them!  And out they came: the bunnies, the hedgehogs, the sugar gliders, the baby otters, and the potbelly pigs, all so excited to finally be free, to share their unbearable cuteness with the world!
   And with their emancipation, Alicia felt so light, so happy for their freedom, so happy that everyone would see her for who she was on the inside!  She finally shared everything that had been locked up for so long!  And it felt so good!  She spread her arms and bared her chest, surrendering to the freedom and laughing as she slowly drifted away.
   Hours later, a popular after-hours nightclub was shut down.  Yellow tape with the words, "POLICE LINE. DO NOT CROSS," wrapped around the building.
   As he pieced together the final parts of the puzzle, the policeman shook his head.  He had finished writing down the account of the bizarre incident's final witness.  
   A young woman, roughly in her mid-20s, had entered the club that night, acting very strange.  
   This was a place where bizarre behavior -- even a disheveled woman laughing maniacally for forty-five minutes straight as she wondered around aimlessly -- went without notice as the club's patrons, too drunk and too stoned to care, would laugh it off and continue dancing.  
   It wasn't until she climbed into an empty dancer's cage and, in a state of pure bliss and ecstasy, gutted herself in front of the entire room of screaming witnesses, that it occurred to anyone that something was actually wrong.

Friday, February 12, 2016

The Cost of Flying Too High

This week's Flash Fiction Challenge is The Subgenre Tango again!  I love these!  The Random Number Generator selected BDSM Erotica and Body Horror.  I had a little fun with this one!  Needless to say: NSFW, possible trigger warnings.

The Cost of Flying Too High

   The crack of the whip was pure ambrosia, the sensation so deliciously painful.  Lillian was ecstatic. Little ripples of pleasure shot through her body with each lash, making her bite her lip in a feeble attempt to contain herself.
   She tried to show some restraint, to hide her complete state of rapture.  She failed miserably,  writhing and moaning softly.
   Mistress Rita was not amused.  She had no tolerance for this shit, and she made it abundantly clear.
   "Lillian, I distinctly told you not to come unless you ask me first!  Did you hear me?!?"
   Lillian knew to respond immediately, or there would be consequences.
   "Yes, Mistress."
   Mistress Rita was quick to deliver punishment.  Lillian knew this all too well.  She had been very careless, and this was simply unacceptable.
   The dominatrix ordered her submissive to crawl on all fours to the toilet, and to scrub it with a toothbrush.  She did as she was told, and to her mistress' liking.
   "Lillian, when are you supposed to come?"
   Lillian looked up from the dirty bathroom floor, now covered in filth.  She felt ashamed for her lack of self control.
   "Only when you give me permission," she replied feebly.
   Mistress Rita narrowed her eyes, then a cruel smirk slowly crept across her face.
   God, she's so fucking hot, Lillian thought.  She struggled to hide her lusty feelings, to show her humility toward her master.  Mistress Rita stomped out of the room.
   "Come over here!"
   Lillian crawled to the parlor, where Mistress Rita was standing, hands on hips.  She kept her eyes to the floor, her head low.  If she dared look up, there would be consequences.  She stopped right at her mistress' feet, adoring the beautiful, high-heeled PVC boots with embossed silver accents.  Shudder.  So much perfection.
   Lillian was ordered to sit on the floor and to choose a picture of her liking to stare at until Mistress Rita returned from her errands.
   "Do not move!  If you move one inch, I will know.  And the punishment will be even more severe than what you have just experienced," Mistress Rita stated, emphasizing each syllable to ensure the sub understood.
   "Yes, Mistress," Lillian softly answered.
   As Mistress Rita left her apartment, Lillian's eyes automatically went to that painting; the one she always found herself staring at when her mistress wasn't looking.  She couldn't take her eyes off of it, and now, it was all she could see.
   The painting wasn't exactly a Rembrandt or a Monet, but there was something painfully beautiful about it.  In the painting, an elegant woman, completely nude, was suspended from a ceiling over a crowd of people by fishing hooks that supported her weight.
   But the most memorable and impressive aspect of the painting was the subject's face -- her look of sheer bliss and reckless abandonment.  She was in another world, free of all her troubles.
   That was what Lillian secretly longed for, all along.  She had to escape, to get away from the world of unwelcome pain and anguish.  The overdue bills.  The controlling and meddling mother.  Being abandoned by her husband.
   All of that went away, even for a little while, whenever she was playing the role of a submissive.  The feeling of having decisions made for her, of surrendering to the will of another, to giving herself over completely, was something so pure and beautiful.
   Lillian had no idea how long she had been staring at the painting.  She was lost in thought when the door opened.  She could feel Mistress Rita's gaze.  The pressure of being watched with so much malice made Lillian ache inside.  She wanted so much to be fucked, and at the same time, she felt completely ashamed.  She was so filthy.  She needed to be punished.  She craved the harsh treatment that only Mistress Rita could give.  She anxiously waited for her mistress to speak.
   "Slave, what made you choose this painting," Mistress Rita asked with a hint of sardonic amusement.
   "It's so beautiful," Lillian reverently spoke, her trembling voice barely above a whisper.  "I see the joy on her face, and I want to feel what she feels."
   Mistress Rita stood there, pensively.  She withheld her words, knowing how much the sub wished for her to speak.  Awkward silences were her specialty, and she used them as an instrument of pain.
   "You may look at me now."
   Lillian looked upon her goddess with worshipful eyes.
   "Lillian, I'm going out of town for two weeks.  You may not contact me while I am gone.  You are going to have to fend for yourself."
   Lillian could feel her heart sinking.  This was terrible news.  She listened, in complete silence.
   "You are going to request services from a suspension artist, and submit yourself wholly to the process.  When I return, you will have completed the experience.  I want pictures and video."
   Lillian felt her heart pounding in her chest.  She was terrified of heights.  And as afraid as she was of needles, the thought of being pierced with hooks was beyond anything she could fathom.
   And yet, her mistress commanded it.  She would never go against Mistress Rita's orders.  To do so would completely end the relationship, and she could not live without her.
   She packed Mistress Rita's bags for her, and humbly bade her farewell.  As she watched her mistress walk out the door, she could feel her heart reducing to tiny shards.
   Those shards cut away at her insides as days turned to nights, and then to days again.  Lillian couldn't eat, couldn't sleep.  Without her mistress, she was reduced to nothing.  Being without Mistress Rita was worse than any punishment she had ever been dealt.
   One morning, she wondered how much longer it would be.  A sudden panic shot through her like a bolt of electricity.  It shocked her into realization.  She ran to the calendar, and realized it was the last Friday she would be alone.  Mistress Rita was returning on Monday, and Lillian needed to find a suspension artist right away!  If she didn't, she would lose her beloved mistress forever.
   She called around, but everyone was already booked at least two weeks in advance.  There was no one available.
   Lillian looked up the seediest bars in town, and finally found one that suited her.  Happy hour would begin soon, and she hoped to find someone who was up for the task.
   A Shot in the Dark was a disgusting excuse for a dive bar, and absolutely perfect for Lillian's purposes.  It was, as the name suggested, very dark inside -- if not for the ambiance, then to hide the fact that it was rarely cleaned.  The smell of musty leather and pickled everything hung in the air.  Lillian was glad she dressed appropriately -- her black leather corset and denim cutoffs seemed almost like a uniform in this place.
   She took a seat at the bar, and ordered a shot of whiskey.  After making small talk with the bartender, she mustered up the courage to ask.
   "Hey, I've been thinking about doing body suspension, but it seems like everyone is already booked up."
   The bartender raised an eyebrow.
   "Really?!?  How soon are you wantin' to do this?  Is it for a special occasion?"
   "No, I just want to do it before I lose my nerve.  So, tonight, if at all possible."
   The bartender laughed and stepped back.
   "I'm sorry, sweetie.  I don't think anyone would be available on such short notice."
   Then, a burly, bearded guy sitting two seats down motioned for the bartender.  Lillian couldn't hear what they were saying over the loud music, but luckily the bartender relayed the message.
   "That's Sam," the bartender said as Sam raised his hand off the bar in a subtle wave.  "He says he knows a guy."
   Lillian thanked the bartender and tipped him generously.  She sat next to Sam, and he told her about an underground club nearby that he manages.  They did shows on Friday nights, and one of the guys who signed up for it had "pussed out."
   "Now, the guy who's handling things tonight is new.  We decided to give him a chance, because he's been bugging us forever."
   "No worries," Lillian replied, smiling.  "Everyone starts somewhere!"
   She was just happy to have found someone on such short notice.
   The underground club was in an abandoned warehouse.  It was even filthier than the bar.
   Sam escorted Lillian to the back, where a massage table was set up.
   A tattooed bald man was carefully inserting hooks into another man's knees.  He was lifted off the table, his head swinging to the floor.  The crowd cheered as he twirled and spun around.  Little trickles of blood started to drip from his knees, as he spread his arms wide over the crowd's heads.
   Lillian could feel the effects of the whiskey wearing off.  She needed some liquid courage, and fast!
   She looked over to the bar, and Sam stopped her.  He seemed to know exactly what she was thinking.
   "Nope.  Trust me on this, you don't want any alcohol in your system.  This is an amazing experience, and you want to be fully aware of every sensation."
   Lillian shuddered with fear, but she nodded in compliance.  Sam handed her a book with pictures of different types of suspension.  She looked through all of them, and settled on her favorite.  It was just like the woman in the painting.
   "Oh, that's the 'Angel.'  It's really cool, but are you sure you don't want to start off with an easier one?"
   Lillian shook her head.  This was probably the only time she would ever do this.
   "Go big or go home, right?"
   Sam smiled, shaking his head.
   The suspension artist studied the picture, and Lillian could sense some slight hesitation.  He motioned for her to lay down.  He marked the spots to insert the hooks, and proceeded to pierce her skin in eight different places.
   Sam took the microphone and introduced Lillian to the crowd.
   "Put your hands together, ladies and germs!  We're popping this little lady's cherry tonight!  That's right, this is her first time doing this!"
   The crowd cheered twice as loud as it did for the last performer.  After the last hook was put in, and they tested the gear, Lillian was lifted off of the table.
   They started slowly, just barely lifting her up.  It was like nothing Lillian had ever experienced before.  She closed her eyes, and all her problems fell away.  She was flying.  She felt free.
   She could feel herself swinging back and forth.  It was exhilarating.  She wanted to go even higher. She looked back at Sam and pointed up.  He made an OK gesture, and raised her up.
   It was amazing.  She loved floating about the crowd, soaring.  She wanted to go higher.
   She motioned, and again, was raised up.  After flying some more, she motioned again.  Sam shook his head.  She requested to go higher again.  He rolled his eyes, and finally gave in.  Higher she went, until she could nearly touch the ceiling.
   It wasn't until a few minutes of swinging that she realized something was wrong.  She was falling off of the hooks.
   She couldn't control it.  The suspension artist scrambled to lower her safely, but she fell off completely.  Her body rolled as she hit the floor.
   When she came to, everyone was looking at her, asking if she was OK.
   No stranger to pain, Lillian mustered a smile and slowly stood up.  Her body hurt like a motherfucker, but she would be OK.  She was ushered to the back office, where Sam and a female bartender looked her over.
   "Ooh, that doesn't look good," he said when he examined her back.  "You got health insurance?"
   Lillian shook her head.
   "Here.  Take these," he said as he handed her a pill bottle.  "Don't mix them with alcohol.  I'll check up on you tomorrow.  What's your number?"
   Lillian gave him her phone number, and he helped her hire an Uber driver to take her home.
   "I'm sorry I couldn't drive you; I have to shut this place down tonight.  Take no more than two pills tonight, three if you're absolutely in fucking pain.  But don't overdo it; these babies are pretty potent."
   Lillian nodded, and headed home.
   That night, the pain was even more excruciating than before.  The bruises must be setting in, she thought to herself.
   She had already taken one pill, so she decided to take two more, keep ahead of the pain.
   She didn't wake up until mid-afternoon on Saturday.  The pain was even worse than before.  And it wasn't just on her back.  The pain had spread through her arms and legs, and felt like it was searing into her like a fire brand.  She took some deep breaths, trying to manage it.  It was unbearable.
   I must have a high tolerance to these pills, she thought.  Pain pills were a regular part of her diet whenever she was recovering from Mistress Rita's punishment.
   She popped some more, but they didn't seem to work.  The pain just wouldn't go away.  She was half-conscious, but still feeling the intense sensation throughout her body.  She looked at the back of her right arm, where a particularly painful sensation was pulsating.  It was black and red.
   This can't be right, she thought.  She looked at other parts of her body, where her creamy, clear skin had turned horribly ugly.  She wasn't sure, but she thought she was smelling something ... like decay.  Her head was swirling, her body nearly convulsing with chills.  She grabbed a bottle of water, and took two more pills.
   Within seconds, Lillian collapsed to the floor, her head rolling back.  She was aware of her surroundings, but completely unable to move her body.  It was moving on its own, seizing.  She was faintly aware of foaming at the mouth.  She was the helpless puppet of an alien force, rattling her body and thrashing it about like a dog with a chew toy.
   In a moment, it was over.  She wanted to throw up, to expel the poison.  But her body wouldn't let her.  She lay immobile, unable to help herself, or call for help from anyone else.  She was all alone with The Pain.
   All this time, she thought she was in love with Mistress Rita.  Maybe the truth was, she was really in love with The Pain.  It was The Pain that had delivered her from her mundane life.
   The Pain which had helped her find her identity.
   The Pain which had made her forget.
   The Pain which had made her truly alive.
   As the hours passed, The Pain made itself more and more at home inside her body.  It ate her flesh alive, slowly.  It feasted upon all that her life had become, and all that she ever would be.
   It consumed her, little by little.  The Pain was gradually taking over her, enveloping her in its all-consuming fire.
   Its chosen vessel, the flesh-eating bacteria, had found its way into Lillian's body on that fateful night when she soared too high.  The Pain had passed the point of no return; she was now completely Hers.
   As promised, Mistress Rita returned from her trip on Monday, with plans to reunite with her sub.  She would allow Lillian to feed her dinner, then massage her feet if she behaved well enough.
   She called out for Lillian, even stamped her foot to emphasize the immediacy of her demands.  But there was no answer.  Lillian was no longer hers to abuse.
 The Pain, her true mistress, had brought her into Her own.  

Sunday, January 31, 2016

Tweet Dreams are Made of These

   This week's Flash Fiction Challenge is to write the entire story through social media. I chose Twitter, because it's been a huge platform for online bullying in recent years. Any resemblance between this story and real life events is purely coincidental. Please do enjoy. *NSFW, potential triggers*

Tweet Dreams are Made of These

Samantha Darling   @samanthadarling   June 13
Just played the new Crimesanity XIV game for the PX8. Here's my review: #gamereview, #notafan, #sexismingaming

     NVRCuckolded   @nvrcuckolded   June 13
     How the fuck can you say that? Crimesanity is the most successful gaming franchise in PX history! STFU and get back in the kitchen!

     DeathToMisandry   @deathtomisandry   June 13
     Any REAL gamer knows Crimesanity is awesome, and those are just characters! This isn't real life! Lighten up, bitch!

     Annie Lux   @annielux   June 13
     OMG! She just expressed her opinion about the game! Why so much hostility?

     Bitchesmustdie   @bitchesmustdie   June 13
     If I ever see you, I'll do to you what Sam Stone did to that stuck-up slut in Crimesanity! #showemwhosboss, #bitchesamiright

     Pssystar   @pssystar   June 13
     You think THAT'S hot? Come see me and all my sexy, slutty friends on our NO LIMITS WEBCAM site 18+

     Shecomeshard   @shecomeshard   June 13
     Want to make her come EVERY TIME?!? Then YOU need a bigger, harder cock! Go to!

     Themightyween   @themightyween   June 13
     I'm going to find you and make you pay for what you've done. 

     Stephanie Leigh   @stephlee   June 13
     You guys need to stop! This is beyond inappropriate!

     Dudisms   @dudisms   June 13
     Are you sure you're not subconsciously expressing your sexual frustrations? Give me you're address, and I'll come put a smile on your face.

     BestPUAEver   @bestpuaever   June 13
     Why are U playing games U don't like when U could be getting me off? #itsnotgoingtosuckitself, #betteruseofyourtime

    Broisright   @broisright   June 13
    You're an awful writer and you don't know fuckall about gaming! If you're going to suck, suck this!

    Sluts4U   @sluts4u   June 13
    Is your lady not treating you right? Our girls will do ANYTHING YOU WANT! ANAL! ORAL! 3SOMES! No limits! 18+

    Samantha Darling   @samanthadarling   June 13
    Really, people?!? What I wrote was just a review and a critique. These comments are getting out of hand. #growupalready

    Jonesie   @jonesie   June 13
    Here's a critique of your ugly face!

    Samantha Darling   @samanthadarling   June 13
    @jonesie, that's a really low blow. Do you really think that was necessary?

    Dudisms   @dudisms   June 13
    What's "necessary" is your lips wrapped around my cock! Get on your knees and get to work!

    Bitchesmustdie   @bitchesmustdie   June 13
    Real name and address: Jennifer Logan. 24986 W. Manchester Ln. Paris, TX, 75462

    Samantha Darling   @samanthadarling   June 13
    WTF?!? I'm reporting you for this! You can't post my personal info!

    Bitchesmustdie   @bitchesmustdie   June 13
    I believe I just did. Go ahead, take it down. But it's already out there. And now everyone knows how to find you. 

    Themightyween   @themightyween   June 13
    I already have what I need. Get ready. I'm going to make you scream all night.

    Broisright   @broisright   June 13
    Not if I don't get to her first. I hope you like sloppy seconds, @themightyween!

    Julie Knox   @julieknox   June 13
    This has just gone beyond harassment and into the realm of viable threats. Leave her alone, or I'll call the cops.

    Broisright   @broisright   June 13
    STFU, @julieknox, or you'll be next!

Hailey Mann   @haileymann   June 13
Just saw a kitten doing somersaults in the park! So effing cute! 

    Farting Unicorn retweeted
Snarky Sodas   @snarkysodas   June 13
Why settle for mass-produced beverages when you can enjoy our hand-crafted sodas! No corn syrup or artificial ingredients!

LBN Breaking News   @lbnnews   June 14
A local video game reviewer shot and killed intruders in her home, just hours after threats were made on Twitter.

Samantha Darling   @samanthadarling   June 15
If you're up to date on the news, you know what happened to me. I can't take this any more. I love my fans, but I have to resign. Goodbye.

    Julie Knox   @julieknox   June 15
    No! Don't let them force you out! You made a difference in the lives of so many! #don'tdoit

    Broisright   @broisright   June 13
    Good riddance to dumb bitches! #ftw

    Bitchesmustdie   @bitchesmustdie   June 13
    Bye, felicia!