Written by: Robin B. Lipinski

“What the fuck took so long?” The purple blob commonly known as the, Writers Parasite can be known a her or him but definitely not, it.

I wanted to see who would win the office pool.

“Well? Who won?”

i did.

“Yep. Still fucked in the head.”

Should we talk then of the cell phone ending up under the steps to Heaven? Was it an angel, a demon? Better yet…those fucking fairies again?

:=:Ti tiy tiy tiy tou:=:

yep, and then again.

So parasite, you bitch/bastard/asshole/prick, wanna talk about Trump?

“You know it’s not polite to talk about the Green Mile? Right Agent Barton? (insert delusional thoughts, plus, did Einstein enjoy masturbating?)

Good to see you back my friend.

“You too you cockey bastard from hell, or yet, heaven? Anyway, let the games begin!”

No parasite, not a game (as there are winners and losers) not a fantasy (ha! he! guffa-guffa-wheeeze…) Yes, a part of the dream but lets get real, it’s a bet between God and Satan, and what’s that? Hamburgers and home made virgin flower covering such a sweet onion filled with spice?

Sign \ me / in.