I had grown sort of used to Kimber supporting me, but now that there is a whole other person buying me things I have been reminded that my situation is a little bit nonstandard. When Sammy pays for my delicious bottles of rum and things I’m all sheepish and thankful, like a real human being, which will not do at all.
This has inspired me to make fuck tons of money, which I think is the first sensible reaction my brain and I have ever had to anything. Kudos, Captain. We’ll be rich, no doubt, now that we have decided we are vaguely interested in money.
My video game site will, of course, make a cool million a week, should it at some point exist. I will supplement my income, then, with my freelancing. Soon I will take mi innamorati on a trip around the world, where we will meet with the most devoted fans of my articles on dish detergent and rain gear for cyclists, and everyone will pay to blow me.
We’re well on our way. My most recent paid work was writing an article about the best pocket knives for campers. I concluded that the best pocket knives for campers fit into campers’ pockets. They paid me $25 for this. A couple of those a day and I can take my former benefactors to lunch at the Olive Garden.
My most recent unpaid work reads a little something like:
I can feel it building inside of me as I thrust into her, hungrily probing to elicit her ancient sounds of pleasure and stuttering breath. The feeling wells up within me and pushes to escape, but I hold it back for now. I squeeze my eyes tight and push as hard and as deeply as I can and must, and then I feel it, and I can’t restrain it any longer. With a primal bellow I release, and the liquid spills forth from my eyes, running over my cheeks and falling into her mouth. Wait, what? I’m crying? I’m crying!
Nobody will give me $25 for that, which I think I have identified as a flaw with the world.
