7/13/2024 11:48 PM: ;-*O!!!!!!!!erianadonutfreak1999: Jesus H. Fucking Christ. Like, I’m a human, right? An around-at-a-quarter-of-its-life-expectancy human with ovaries, right? When this guy walked into the dining room… I swear my heart skipped a beat. And then BOOM, almost KO’d my sternum with the next one, as I swear to god my salivary glands broke water and - on my mother - my entire reproductive apparatus felt like this amorphous, dripping-wet sea-sponge someone had just vigorously squeezed every living drop out of… with a single contraction of both of their big, strong, sexy hands. Forget about the house, let’s talk its creator. This guy looks and acts like a… cross between a much younger, short-bearded, slightly taller Nick Nolte and a slightly older, short-bearded, slightly taller Ryan Reynolds. Wearing a sky-blue, sack type, narrow notch lapel, single vent jacket with the two top shirt (white) buttons unbuttoned instead of a tie, black straight-legged jeans, beige suede oxfords. Zilch in terms of accessories – 0 glasses, 0 rings, 0 watch, 0 chains. Wait, 1 accessory… one beat up Samsung Galaxy Note 10, metallic Spygen cover. But right now both of his virile, tan, vasculated hands are empty, hanging calmly, respectively, at 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock of his front pants’ pockets, me wishing I was 12. He set his eyes on me.

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7/14/2024 12:01 AM: ;-*O!!!!!!!!erianadonutfreak1999: And sits right the fuck in front of me. Jesus! I need to keep on stuffing my mouth with Martita’s pueblo dessert in order not to either: 1. Say something moronic, and/or 2. Drool all over my freaking lap. So he’s right across from me. At first he’s asking me stuff, suave as a mother, as he eats his pueblo soup, he’s eyeing me like a mother, too, and so I end up telling him about the project and Martita’s like, “YO, GUESS WHAT, ERI, THIS MOTHER BUILT THIS FUCKING PLACE!” and I’m like… so I brain-fart this moron-prize-of-the-year pearl through my mouth: “Will you give me an interview?” Jesus H. Christ. So he’s like no prob, we can have it right here in the house, but not in the house, if you know what I mean. And asks me if I’m “in”. So to compensate for my previous outburst I skip like seventeen beats to answer, putting up my best Rodin’s She-Thinker look. And slowly say, “sure, I guess that would be okay”. And now I got a world-strong army of man-sized butterflies, of all shapes, sizes, colors and their own anxieties rampant, ramming their way up across my body, up my wide-open freaking asshole and out my wide-open freaking mouth, ears, and nostrils. Some of ‘em even trying to pound their way through my fucking eyeballs. Fuck. Anyway. Here goes.