by Randy Conner
The other day, and by that I mean fucking Tuesday, I was brushing my teeth quite violently. I made my gums bleed and, after admiring my shiny, red grin, I spit onto the mirror. It made my face look as though I had been involved in a semi-serious car accident, and this made me chuckle. I stopped chuckling, because for some reason this reminded me of your twentieth birthday. I remember going through a lot of trouble to take you to an expensive restaurant for a romantic dinner. I was unaware that you still had the semen of your ex-boyfriend inside you, fresh from the night before.
Randy Conner would like to be your imaginary friend. He lives in Dayton, Ohio and blogs here.