Crazy Drugged-Up Book About The Summer I'm Writing

[zombologist]

Hey, I'm an amateur writer-type and I write odd things in my spare time. Towards the beginning of last summer I was inspired by Hunter S. Thompson and Irvine Welsh (among others) to write a book about the last summer and study how an entire summer of smoking marijuana fucked up my head.

It's part drugsploitation filth, part failed experiment in "gonzo" journalism and part angsty bitching. It's also semi-fictional, giving me full artistic liscense to write whatever I damn well want to. Identities, genders and appearances have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty.

I sometimes write sober, other times I'm off my tits. You might be able to see that in the writing.

I call it:
"Masturbation, Narcotics & Alternative Rock
Confessions Of A Teenage Dirtbag
“The Summer It All Went To Pot”
(a slightly fictionalized account of Summer in St. Neots from a Basket Cases point of view)"

This is the prologue; Are You Going To Strawberry Fair? (A Stoners Christmas In Cambridge)
Enjoy.
(you may find some of it hard to follow, those are usually parts where I would use italics or bold and I just can't be bothered to recreate them on here yet, I might do that later)

"Chances are if you are reading this, you either know in perfect detail what Strawberry Fair is all about. Or you are just like the rest of the known world that’s beyond the outside of East Anglia and haven’t the foggiest.

Well, sit down and get comfortable and I’ll tell you all about it.

Started in the early 70’s, presumably by the backwash remnants of the then-dying hippie generation, it has long been a staple of summer life here in sunny, sunny Cambridgeshire. The aim of the Fair, and I quote: “has always been to provide entirely free entertainment for the benefit of the local community, including children and young adults.”, and I can tell you that, although shopping at and preparing for Strawberry Fair will cost you an arm and a leg (and usually a good twenty-five pounds too), it truly does succeed at it’s aims, a day out at the Fair is a day well spent, and don’t be alarmed if the way the air smells leaves you a little giddy, it’s all part of the fun.

Not that the cops see it that way—no. They have been coming down hard on the fair, as of late, to cut down on the drug-abuse and drug related violence and crimes that drugs cause. This does seem like a sensible idea; in practice, however, it’s over-the-top, too expensive and criminalizes everybody no matter who they are. Rumours were rife before the fair that cops were going to double or even triple their coverage of the fair. This was good news for those who feared they might be attacked by a raving, jabbering crackhead while interrupting them while they’re on the pipe—The worrywarts and pussies, in other words. For us, the Friendly Neighbourhood Stoners, it was not so great, it needlessly made us feel like we were the criminals for just smoking some weed at the fair like people always have done. We’re not harming anyone by smoking some herb and chilling out listening to the music and eating the greasy over-expensive food. It’s just that which makes the Fair such a popular festival. I dare say that if you took the weed away from Strawberry Fair, the Fair itself would eventually become barren and deserted. Nobody would care,

My first experiences of the Fair were not happy memories. It was probably, probably the first time I had done any amount of weed en masse, and it had gone to my head, couple that with the fact that I had recently gone through what I would call one of the worst break-ups of my life, and it becomes easy to see that my paranoid mind was at play all over the place, I thought everyone was out to get me, I could see my ex-first girlfriend canoodling and mingling with all sort of guy folk, I was wishing for sobriety and struggling to stay awake. I did not have a good time, the summer of ’08 sucked. I’ve recently been considering a lobotomy, if only to remove that entire time period from my mind.

The summer of ’09, however, was completely different.

It began back here in St. Neots on the fifth of June, exactly one day before Strawberry Fair was due to commence and I had already used up a good two weeks of my study leave time (and I have to say, I didn’t do much studying either). I decided to bunk the night with a couple of my amigos so that we could all get the bus early in the morning, before the bulk of the fair goers attacked the transport system. I managed to snag a place to lay my weary head in my friend Cecil’s conservatory, and would be sharing that with the usual duo, Dex and Archie. We met late in the day, my pockets pleasantly full for a change thanks to the saving I had done refusing to buy tobacco and living off the cigarette ends of my family, friends and anything I could find, I also had some tobacco I had bought earlier, because you can’t go to a fair without a full pouch of bacci to barter with. (Not that I will be in any state to barter anyway).

I had seventy pound, tobacco, rizla, filters and roach card (and emergency roach card), I also had a phone, uploaded to the gills with good time music and a journal to get everything down onto. I was about ready for whatever the Fair could throw at me, I just needed one more important ingredient to add this recipe, and that was?

Marijuana.

Luckily for us, Cecil had his contacts, thus we found ourselves on our way through one of the dodgier estates in St. Neots to pick up the final piece of equipment. I swung on a nearby rope swing while waiting for Cecil to make the deal. A man in a tracksuit with gelled and spiked hair walked towards us from one of the many grime covered council houses and stopped next to Cecil, who handed over the money in return for the drugs, then, as quickly as he appeared, the dealer slinked back into the little brick box he came out of.

Cecil turns to me and gives me my thirty pounds worth of the good green stuff, one ten-bit and an eighth, to be precise; we took the time to remark on how they looked pretty decent, before I shoved them both into my tobacco pouch.

Some time later we were sat on a small green about ten minutes away from where we picked up, and I’m indulging in a bit of the bud with my friends. Cindy is also with us, having picked her up in town earlier on that day, as usual she just sits there and giggles as slowly, one by one, the rest of us get sky high, and in a matter of minutes we are all (minus Cindy, who was laughing) jumping around to Ugly Kid Joe like it was 1992, and if I hated everything about you, and because I can’t see you I’ll assume that I do.

Things were fuzzy and sharp at the same time, I found thoughts pirouetting around, doing barrel rolls in my head, and just as I began to linger on one particular thought, something else would catch my attention sending the Jerry Crabgrass Express thought train down a completely different set of tracks. Like track-marks on an addicts arm, totally random patterns began emerging between thoughts. I thought that, this could be the best weekend of my life, thanks to my friends, music and drugs, it was all that I could possibly need for the next eight or six weeks of summer holiday.

I had a dark thought, musing on the possibility of perhaps even building up a tolerance to weed over the holidays, and it sent a shiver down my spine, which again made me lose my place in my mind, all of a sudden I began to think about tacos and cheese.

At some point I lost myself under an oak tree whilst dancing around to Son of a Gun by The Vaselines, which was being blasted out of my phone at full volume. For a short moment in time, bliss encapsulated me like a butterfly caught by a friendly child. Swing, swing, up and down. Turn, turn turnaround. Round, round and roundabout and over again. Gun, gun, Son of a Gun, you are the only one and no-one else, can take my place. Sun shines in the bedroom, when we play! And the rain it always starts when you go away!…

Somehow we made it back to Cecil’s place, and we hot-boxed his conservatory, just as we always did, but this time something felt different, like we were on the eve of something amazing.

Because we were on the eve of something amazing, actually.

Strawberry Fair.

After smoking off the last of my ten-bit, I decided it was time for bed, after all, much more rolling and organizing will have to be done before we even go to the Fair in the morning. It was gonna be a hell of a day.

My dreams were odd. I could see a hallway, and at the end of that hallway was a door, and I knew, though I’m not sure how, that behind that door was a gorilla playing blackjack with an orang-utan. Every time I tried to take a step toward that door, Cecil would give me a joint which would knock me to the ground. I’d hit the ground hard, and then get dragged back to the end of the hallway, back into the shadow, back into the darkness.

I awoke in a daze to see Dex grinning his gurny grin, and at first, I assumed it was just another nightmare.

“Y’alryte, Jerry?” I think he said.

It took a few minutes for me to regain my composure, but soon I came round to see that Dex was in the middle of rolling a very big joint. “Now this” he exclaimed, holding up the finished product and pointing to it “is gonna take you on a magic carpet ride.” His grin reached from ear to ear.

The next half hour was a rolling party, because you’d have to be some kind of idiot to go to the Fair without even one pre-rolled zoot to start you off. I did my best to roll a few doobs, but I only really succeeded at making three, pear-shaped minis. Stuffed to the gills with marijuana, though, just cruelly deformed, like the Elephant Man if the Elephant Man had a pot habit.

Our party of would-be kings-for-a-day left for the bus stop early in the morning. An old lady asked us what was going on today, and we literally sang back in chorus “Straw-Berry Faaaair!” It was smiles all around, which is usually pretty rare when we are all sober.

The X5 bus turned up about five minutes late, as usual, and we all got on one-by-one. After we’d paid our fares and sat down, everyone started to chat amongst each other, all guessing and double guessing what sort of fun we’ll be having at this years fair. I stared blankly out the window, my head too tired for chit-chat and barely able to conjure a coherent sentence; I’d been in a slump for several days, and couldn’t see no end to it yet. Even when in one-to-one conversation I was failing, I couldn’t string my words together properly, so everything I said sounded very amateurish and dumb. My mind was clashing with a writers block as air-tight as Guantanamo Bay. Agony it was to even write, it all sounded like shit to me.

On the way into town the bus stopped to let more people board. What was a relatively quiet cross-county bus journey turned into a rampant party-bus, as the Pill’ead Lot (as we call ‘em) boarded in a battle-cry of “Nah Maytes” and “Do Ones”. Our Local Weed Merchant was with them, acting like a Lord among peasants—but more about him later, after all, I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprises this chap has in store. He started a psyched-up convo with my comrades Archie and Dex—

LWM: *loud and lairyly, announcing himself* aRya’oorlriyght Guiz! Gonna Go Get Twatted At The Fair!?
P’eL: *screams*
Archie: Yeah..yeah, should be tasty beans indeed.
Dex: *excited, perhaps?* aaaaahhhhYeah Blantentlee! It’s gonn’ be SIK-lyke!
LWM: *to another party go-er* Alright ma-an!? Gonna get fucked too?
PGE: Oi yeah, blatentliiy. Gonne get fucked up!
LWM: *Rebel-Yell-Battle-Screech-Of-Anticipation*
Cecil: *nodding to himself reassuringly* I s’pose it’ll be alright…yeah, it’ll be good…

I’d never heard so many catchphrases or mannerisms from my buddies at just one time before—privately, between you and me? It blew my mind.

When the bus got to town, it was already so full that none of our other buddies could get on as we’d arranged. The X5 was completely packed—aha! Jokes on them!

Off we went down the motorway, that-a way! To Strawberry Fair! *epic adventure music plays now*

I zoned out for most of the bus journey, by the time we had left St. Neots, I already had my earphones in listening to some music on my own. I’m aware that today I’m not in a very sociable mood; it’s just typical that it had to be a “community event” day where one should be more sociable than normal. Coffee & TV by Blur eased me into an early morning bus nap; for some strange reason, it’s just a brilliant song to listen to in the morning: Sociability
It’s Hard Enough For Me
Take Me Away From This Big Bad World
And Agree To Marry Me
So We Can Start Over Again.

It meant something, I didn’t know what.

We got to the Fair and unloaded off of the bus in a less-than-orderly fashion and took a whiff of the sweet Strawberry air. We’re here!

We took a short walk through the fair, past the churro stands and Jamaican jerk chicken stalls; weaving in and out of a market of over-priced clothing, stoner paraphernalia and food that somewhat resembles the arm and the leg that it actually costs—still, I suppose at a place like this your allowed to sell-out a bit, it’s all part of the experience. I decide to whore myself out and buy a cheeseburger.

Jerry: Erm…Could I have a cheeseburger please?
Chippie: D’you want onions, love?
Jerry: Er...Yea please
Chippie: That’ll be a fiver, dearie.
Jerry: *fumbles to produce a five pound note* Here…

Five pound!? Five pound for a sesame-seed bun, some reprocessed cheese, a chunk of reformed bull tripe, greasy fried onions and tomato ketchup? That spells rip-off to me; I mean, I understand that this is a free festival and people need to make ends meet but that just seems demanding of the customer.

The Smiths’ Meat Is Murder starts playing in my ear as I catch up with my comrades; oh, fuck off, Morrisey! I paid an entire five pounds on this chunk of beef, and I plan to make the most of it! I DON’T CARE HOW MANY COWS DIED!
…
Yeah, I’m right put off my burger now, thanks Morrisey, you twat…

I finish my burger begrudgingly as we find a nice little spot on the opposite field to the fair. We light up our first set of doobs, let the festivities commence! Moist Vagina by Nirvana plays to itself in the earphones dangling on my collar. “Excellent timing, Mr. Cobain” I think to myself as I take a long exaggerated drag. Marijuana-a-a~!

We waltz back into the fair, taking further looks at the clothing stalls and I would say that I was pretty chonged. Yeah, my tolerance was a pile of total shit back then. We were hobbling around a bin when Dex spotted sight of something in the distance. “It’s Jen!” he cried. I turned around, dumbstruck, to see my on-off girlfriend bounding along the grass towards us—at this time we were currently on.

I felt ashamed of myself, I was in no fit state to be all lovey and dovey. I was in hardly any fit state to talk to anybody at all, let alone my girlfriend. What a failure I must seem like to her, she could do so much better than THIS whiney little bitch of a person. We sat down and I tried to say hi but I couldn’t even think straight. All just a mess in my head.~

She was wearing her hair in two cute little pigtails and had a blue flannel style shirt on with the sleeves rolled up. She was wearing shorts and opaque tights which led down to a pair of clod-hopping Doc Martens. She looked beautiful; it’s a pity I was too fucked by that point to tell her.

Why am I so detached and distant?

We walked to the Main Stage where we would meet the rest of the gang who had finally got into Cambridge and plonked ourselves right in the front, getting a fine view of all the action. A band was playing when we all collectively passed out there, I don’t remember their name but they had a very memorable gimmick. After playing each track, the band members would break the rhythm of the music and swap instruments, showing everybody just how super multi-talented they are.

Peh! Just cheap gimmicks and stage-tricks really, it got old quickly. The band were dressed smart-casual and tried to poise as dignified and artistic—it failed hilariously, the guitarists looked like history geeks and the lead singer sang as if he were depressed about his girlfriend dumping him and rabbit dying at the same time.

Then they stop, they look at each other—lost, looking for a sign to act on before putting the instruments down, criss-crossing about the stage clumsily and trying to make it look organized. Boring, it’s too early in the afternoon for cheap prog-wannabe-wank.

I look around, my girlfriend is calling me over but I can hardly move. I’m fucked. Blast my fucking metabolism! I’m so screwed I just don’t wanna move! LEAVE ME ALONE! GO FUCK OFF AND SNORT SOME K WITH YA BUDDIES!—Holy shit, did I actually just think that? Surely I don’t actually mean it? Surely it’s all just the weed making me lazy and volatile. Or is it? Do I even want a girlfriend right now? Perhaps now just isn’t the right time to be trapped in a loving relationship—I yearn for FREEDOM!

And yet I also yearn for love…The human heart be a strange thing…

My belly aches and my head is spinning; I’m tired, borderline mong mode. It’s alright, Jerry, just don’t try to move. Watch some music, smoke some pot and chill out. Light up a joint, there’s no cops around, so enjoy it; you deserve it. Junkhead by Alice In Chains is playing on my phone. We are an elite race of our own; the Stoners, Junkies and Freaks!

Another band steps up to the plate, Ebony or something is what they’re called. I look around and I catch the eyes of Jen again, she waves and tries to call me over, luring me with promises of cannabis from her friends—big fucking whoop, I have my own weed, any more would be greedy of me. I’m too stoned already, I don’t need anymore and your friends don’t fucking like me anyway, you can see it in the way they look at me, they have cruel, judging eyes that see straight through me.

Great, Jerry, looks like that good ol’ fashioned stoner paranoia is starting to kick in.
Shut Up, Brain.

I look away, she seems upset. Pity, I’d already scheduled this day with mi amigos at the Fair. My girlfriend is the furthest thing on my mind. I’m such a horrid little cow. How can you live with yourself ignoring the person you apparently love? She loves you to pieces and you know that, you selfish little whore.
FUCK OFF, BRAIN.

Where the fuck was I? Ah yes! Ebony are playing right now, although I couldn’t give you an opinion on their music, I honest to god wasn’t paying enough attention. That obviously means that it wasn’t worth paying attention to. Carry on, now.

Look at the homeless drunks dance! *teehee*

Journal Extract: “The Dead defy The Weak by having the convenience of Death. It is that Death that makes them greater. That is why they call them The Glorious Dead”
(Really, I don’t know, but I wrote it at the Fair in my journal.)

I find a small vial. Poppers, it would seem. I take a long exaggerated sniff and I get nothing but a few seconds of dizziness, what a rip-off! I pour it onto the ground, I don’t care who it belongs to—with a high like that, I’m doing them a favour.

Take a look around, Jerry. Take in your environment; what is going on around you?

…

There is a band playing. Good, good, what type of band? Rock, presumably, it doesn’t interest me. Are they performing well? It looks like it, they definitely seem to be having fun. What are you doing? I’m sharing one of Turks spliffs, I think. Where the fuck did he come from? Excellent, what else can you see? All my buddies are getting caned off their tits. Turn around and look at the crowd, what can you see? People, hippies, chavs, goths, emos and punks and the odd family unit in fancy dress. In particular? Dex and Archie are dancing hard enough to rival any of these alcohol soaked hobos…erm…Turk is smoking a hu-u-uge spliff with Larry…Jen is over with her friends, she seems to scowl at me every time I glance over; let’s not glance over there anymore…Local Weed Merchant has fucked himself over and is vomiting into a pothole in the grass…Pill’ead lot are rioting around…Cambridge people are all sitting around each other, forming a protective circle and Cecil is sat with them…Local Weed Merchant is STILL puking up everywhere…No Cops…

Good, Jerry, now you can relax.

Cool beans.

Something hits me from behind, landing straight on top of me. I look up, annoyed, to see a stumbling drunk bum apologizing to me. A woman with crew cut hair and dark tea-shades, she crawls back toward the dancing.

We leave to go catch The Raggamuffins at Future Stage, Jen walks up to me and puts her arms around me. I do the same, I can feel an apology of sorts forming in my mouth—perhaps some long, loving confession about how I’m sorry I’m rather off on a different cloud and how I would have stayed sober if I knew it’d make me act like this…
…Then two more arms crash down upon us; Dex is pretty twatted, you can tell it when he hugs you in his bear-like vice-grip and slurs out a barely distinguishable “Luuv…” to the both of us. Fucking brilliant, Dex, now the moment has completely disappeared. I tumble and trip over my trembling tongue; a voice is screaming in my head “ABORT! ABORT!” as I worm my way out of that suffocating moment and trample into the distance.

Who fucking cares, eh?

After some walking (I think one of my comrades even bought a grinder on the journey) we made it to Future Stage and started to enter the tent when I was caught completely off guard by an orange cowboy punching me in the side.

I soon recognized the fellow as Justin from Get Me A Submarine (the single most awesome grunge-punk outfit in the entirety of East Anglia; top guys, too). He was wearing a bright, neon orange shirt and a worn-leather cowboy hat along with some stylishly distressed jeans—Aha, Justin, you always look the part indeed. That guy is a local hero.

We walk in at about half-way through the Raggamuffins set and I find a good place to camp near the back. My cohorts all dash near the front to start dancing, I wish I had the energy to join them, but alas, I feel unnaturally tired now. I always seem to be stoned whenever I catch the Raggamuffins in concert; it’s one of my things. They play a decent set of multi-influenced indie rock, though I couldn’t go into depth with this one, I was too out of it already.

In the middle of the set, a girl with long black hair turns to me and takes a photograph before taking off into the distance. “Odd,” I wonder “who in their right mind would want to photograph me?” My faded cherry hair is a mess, my shades, dark and ominous, hiding red bloodshot eyes. Wearing the same old scabby Freddy Krueger woolly jumper and some torn up jeans with doodles on, I must have looked right at home at the fair.

Soon after the Raggamuffins have played, we decide that it’s time to bid our goodbyes to the Fair and catch an X5 home. I push a headphone clumsily into my ear just in time to catch the end of a song I didn’t recognize, then silence.

Out of the quiet, a guitar strums softly as my head hits the side window; drums pitter-patter against the side of my cranium as the bus bounces along the countryside. A soothing coo is sung and all of a sudden everything is calm once again, it echoes in the cavity of my skull, something is missing there.

With your feet in the air and your head on the ground.
You try this trick and spin it,
Yeah…
Your head will collapse but there’s nothing in it
So you’ll ask yourself….

Where is my mind?...
Where is my mind?
Where is my mind?
Wa-a-a-ay out, in the water.
See it swimmin’?

Where Is My Mind?

A tear rolls down off of my cheek and drops onto the windowsill below, I don’t know why…

…

(I would tell you about the fun that happened whilst we were around Archie’s that night, but I ended up passing out under a duvet in the foetal position for about a good twelve hours. Shame.)

…

*A Cockerel Calls, Morning Has Arrived*

Ahh…My body is stiff and my head is woozy, my throat desert dry and parched. I look around the place just as the remainder of the gang were about to go for a small wake and bake, so they invite me with them. I follow them around the corner into a moderately dark patch of trees and Archie fills me in on everything I missed…

Archie: *walking along* So, Cecil ended up getting caught *takes a toke*
Jerry: What? Aha! Are you serious?
Archie: Deadly serious. Him and Dex were sharing a pretty big zoot between them after we’d left, and apparently, a cop walks over to Cecil just as he gets the spliff and asks him “’ello ‘ello, what’re planning on doing with that, then?”
Jerry: Nah! What happened?
Archie: *tokes* Well, Cecil turns around and says “smoke it!” really matter-o-factly-like and then gets all his details taken. Funny tings, ya.
Jerry: Lulz

This wasn’t surprising really, the police clamped down hard this year on the peaceful festival. It’s a wonder that nobody else got caught. The police ended up charging the fair about £1,500 for the unsolicited policing of the event, totally unnecessary in my opinion. It’s as if all of those bastardly morons in florescent twat-jackets have nothing better to do than make everybody’s life a living hell for one day, the one day in a dangerous time where we, The Chemical Generation Of Ignorance, can celebrate drugs and all that drugs have given us. Innocent people were held up and searched with fucking sniffer-dogs at the train station and you can be sure they made life fucking difficult for all the honest drug dealers out there; just harmless normal people like you and I, smart enough to make a living off the chemical generation of ignorance. We should praise these people instead of prosecuting them, for without them our generation would be sober in a cruel world that is dissolving everyday before our eyes; why the fuck would we wanna start acting like adults yet? This world is grey, grim & hopeless enough, if we didn’t have the drugs to brighten up our day, this would be a very unhappy generation. The whole debacle at the train station looked like some kind of mobile concentration camp and the Nazis running it wore bright neon yellow. Is this anyway to treat the public who have come to attend and enjoy a free festival? FREE being the keyword there. Where is the freedom in living in the fear of a possible criminal conviction? Why can’t these pigs go bust something serious like the rape of some poor teen who dresses like a slut and acts like it too or maybe an assault and/or robbery by some angry cider-guzzling lout in a shellsuit he’s never washed with a stupid indented buzzed hair-style that he gels into a greasy coagulated mess and the deodorant and after-shave soaked stench that follows him around. Being an over-the-top, obnoxious, alcoholic pikey-looking fucker can get you anywhere these days. It’s no longer anti-social, it’s a fashion statement. I’m brutish, dumb, racist, sexist and homophobic and all the plastic harlots love me; D’you wanna see my ASBO? I got it this weekend for breaking school windows and intimidating everyone around me. Aren’t I cool? </sarcasm>

Maybe I should stop with that now; I forgot what my original point was supposed to be.

The fallout that Strawberry Fair created in my life was immense. That Monday at college I felt like doing nothing but sitting down and admiring the beauty of life (and being a lazy, good-for-nothing sloth). I met Jen at college and didn’t really talk much—turns out that she way overdid it at the fair and was suffering the worlds worst comedown period; she turned bitchy, loathsome and short-tempered. Boo-hoo, sucks to be her. It was her own damn fault for being reckless with drugs, and I wasn’t going to become her scratching post for the next week or so. I decided to dump her that night; the decision came rather abruptly that evening on facebook. I couldn’t be arsed with her or her attitude. She’s like a really good drug with an ungodly comedown and an addiction ten times worse than smack or crack, but that’s another story…
Nice one, just leave her when she’s at her worse. Aren’t you a runner for “Girlfriend of the Year”?
Brain, seriously, go fuck yourself.

Weed had also now cemented into somewhat of an iron-grip vice on my life. Whether I liked it or not, I could now call myself a “stoner”. Woop-ee, another tag to add to my collection; along side “greb”, “greasy” and “twat”. But I knew that weed would bore me soon, this would soon leave me feeling hollow and empty. I knew I would soon long for harder drugs and better highs (and lower lows, but I consider it a willing sacrifice). I was developing an exotic taste.

At least I had the summer to completely fall apart in.

AND NOW!

ON WITH THE SHOW!!"

I don't think it's as great as it could have been to be honest.
What do you guys think to my crazy stoner mumbo-jumbo bullcrap?
Rate me gaybows if you want more =D

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tl;dr;

[highlight](User was banned for this post ("Why reply?" - Perfumly))[/highlight]

[zombologist]

Then why bother posting? It's a piece of writing, of course it's gonna be fucking long.

[AwesomeDino]

[QUOTE=whitespace;18349150]tl;dr;

[highlight](User was banned for this post ("Why reply?" - Perfumly))[/highlight][/QUOTE]

your post was too dumb; didn't read

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[Factory]

Don't include Masturbation tbh, It makes it akward for the reader.