Let me tell you how I destroyed the world in six days.
Day one. In my vision there are no guys, no girls, just cunts. Cunts go this direction and cunts go that direction and at this stage in my life I am five years old—the best age—hiding in a treetop nailed in boards from the neighbor down the street. There are cunts selling lemonade and cunts buying it—and this will remain the dominant paradigm throughout my life, and here it is at five years old. Somehow a flea has made its way into my drink, floating on white milk—as we always say, he died happy. I drink him down like I will later drink down hairs and fingernails of lovers and of my kids. Making them part of me, assimilating them. And I guess that's it for day one.
Day two. Ambassador. At six, I take a kitten in my room and reverse birth it, tiny claws resisting passage up my cunt and I snuggle him inside my womb, petting my belly and feeling him wriggle to a stop.
Day three. Irruption. Irruption of matter, emotion, and style. I become an unstoppable force. Rid myself of guilt. Read all of Heinlein. Stole notes from other girls and studied them—learned how to be a real girl, for when the Pinocchio affect is born. It can take me a whole day to cross over a single sidewalk square. So much to see, to capture, to scare. So many delightful dresses to wear. So much hair. Flip it and flop'n' it. Flippy flop flippy flop. I'll be on top. Bunny, horse, you name it—I'm the bounce pussy come to spill your cum. Flippity flop now stop.
Day four—if you can take it. Imagine a Disney character with devil horns—that's me. My voice like Kristen Bell ass like Beyoncé. Keep a spreadsheet of possible seed. See boys in a carousel of translucence, one and then the other never more than three on the same day I have a breeding program. You're nothing more than a cum factory to me—and delivery device. Day four is that smoothest, hottest, textural procedure feeling you lump yourself inside my c and rub it until you let go, pushing yourself over the hump of the rollercoaster, first hill. Then you fucking squirt! and don't cum for a few days before you see me, boys. I want the pressure of the pump, firehose volume, not a trickle—see! Every day I dress for the Oscars—even got an app for that. It's see-through short shorts and SnorgTees hallway is a runway pooper is a dressing room. Filtration. Through, and through. Catch my cunt dripping with a fetus—boom! Girl snot bleeding me a concentration (or a catch) of thickness that could be a baby baby monkey seaside brine shrimp novelty packs. I could place it on my finger, carry it to my dresser, set it down, and watch it dry. The life within enters a cryptobiotic state therefore proving that the only true way to a girl's heart is through her panties.
Day five. Regenesis. Each and every baby I kill gets its own plaque and commemorative SnorgTee usually they just say RAWR! I'm a dangerous tiger! but sometimes they get a variation. I guess it's a question of significance—what makes you feel like you matter to the world—and for me it's all about fetuses.
Day six. I keep a jar over the door containing genetic material from my uncle so if he ever tries anything again I can register his sex offender ass.
Day seven. This is the important one so pay attention motherfucker. Promise when we meet in the playground in dreams you won't push me to the dirt, kick it in my face and drop your dusty fingers below my shorts. Elastic. Bands. I'll be there with my nylon Cannons slipping up showing my lacy lacy cotton whites gusset in your face packing me in tight and cool. I can see your face mixed with mine, four amino acids swirling in my belly like a cow—nervousness. Butter begins to fly and I'll let you pump me on the playground just keep your dusty fingers out my cunt! With you excavating oil I see one more monkey in my jars—or maybe I'll let this one get to the aquarium stage. Put him in a basket of fluoride and rubbing alcohol, tiny bit of a foam mattress. I'll watch you under violet plant lighting keeping your skin warm and protected from leeches (which I add). I see your power draining into me so thrust away thruster! I'll sneak in a couple of mild ones before you head to the grand illusion. Be my snake pit, darling—I am your snake hole. Lubricate me with love—or whatever you call it. I shall forever be ashamed at my love of the experiment—it's all science to me, cold (as they'd called me). All the Method. Control, experiment, group. Hypothesis. Conclusions. And we're done! My purpose was to become a real real girl, sticks of wood up my ass panting in the dust making something of my disparate parts which seemed when I looked down from above the clouds that I was nothing more than a baby-making apparatus, every love every hate every thirst hunger ability piece of knowledge all designed to make me make more of me as nature seems to be searching for something. Something that is using a bunch of human containers to go through and all it cared is that I allowed the occasional fetus to come to term—all my other abilities, my thoughts, experiences were overmatch. They served the goal of keeping me pregnant fed watered and at enough leisure to engage daily in the dirty deed. If I drink a lemonade, it is because mother nature desired me to.