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“As your personal doctor who is concerned with the color of your balls, I’m simply prescribing a way to take care of yourself other than using your hand.”
“Well, good luck to you because I had to army crawl, walk, skip, and jog through the depths of Satan’s asshole to get to where I am right now. Nothing you throw my way will scare me.”
I step on what I like to call Satan’s building blocks—a.k.a. Lego—and I’m immediately taken down to my knees as pain shoots up my leg.
“What the hell am I going to do with twenty pictures of you eating a hot dog?”
Every time I look into your eyes, a combination of the dark and light parts of the ocean, I get lost.
