I’ve not been laid for a year. The symptoms of chronic celibacy have become so severe that I’m getting pessimistic about my prognosis: I’ve developed a pathological disinterest in Nutella and spend most of my days drooling on the floor calling for my Stronic rabbit, which never comes.
I also keep making accidental puns.
This is a clear sign that I will definitely die tomorrow from the incurable effects of cock deficiency. Celibacy this deadly is malicious. One day you’re throwing out your mascara, and the next you’re wearing beige jerseys made entirely out of floofs.
The spiders building cobwebs in my vagina have decided that their homes were too impermanent for the situation, so they’ve moved a chaise longue and a washing machine in there. The final stages of chronic sexlessness will soon take effect. I believe they entail taking up knitting, possibly in beige. The odds of my survival are less than zero, even if someone is nice enough to let me give him a blowjob today. I’m fucked. Not in that way, though, obviously. I’m not getting any fucking action. Sweet fuck all. I’m getting so little action that just saying ‘fuck’ over and over again is soothing enough to matter to me.
I once had a case of celibacy and sub frenzy so bad I texted the ex who used to spend all our dates reciting Leonard Cohen lyrics for a booty call. He sent me a cock shot and asked me to grow out my pubes, so I told him to go fuck himself. It was a narrow escape, but thank the lord for those little reminders that sometimes sex is, indeed, worse than no sex.
I’m beginning to lose interest in porn. I’ve even created a weekly orgasm schedule because otherwise I won’t even bother, which will obviously turn me into a hairy legged monster. Or something. Actually, to be honest, I’m making that part up. I don’t really know what happens to you if you don’t have any orgasms. It just seems wrong. But clearly if I die tomorrow, which I will definitely do, there’ll be no more orgasms or porn for me. I suppose all the men who aren’t fucking me will be relieved that the global Nutella supply will finally improve permanently, unlike my sex life.
I suppose you’re busy waiting for a sentence that explains the title of this post. There isn’t one. Making up crap is another symptom of my terminal sexlessness. I bet you feel sorry for me now.