I am a hog.
I look about ready to have an apple shoved in my mouth and spit roast. And no that’s not a sexual reference because, despite my untiring horn, I am too fat to fuck.
If by chance I actually did have the displeasure of meeting someone I genuinely liked, I would insist on us doing it in the dark and partially clothed. Any spark would fizzle out after displays of my repellent insecurities. I would say I’d insist on abstaining from sex altogether were it not for my unfortunate and unrelenting drive. Said drive being the one constant abandoned by my rapidly evaporating sex appeal. This leaves me with a sad realisation that perhaps my encounters will continue to be sadder and more depraved as I quickly bud into a well seasoned spinster, honing a long wheeze through the rolls on my neck; I’ll cry after frigid sex with men who yearn for their ex lovers but I won’t mention any of this is therapy…
Naturally I’ll have cats by then so it won’t be all bad.
Sturm und Drang 