ONE BIG FAT BUCKET OF FUCK.

But is the fuck organic? I'm not just out here consuming rando fuck buckets like I don't need to keep this shit pretty. I'm not just any consumer. My family began raising the golden fuck of the stars on 700 acres of land naked with their bare hands. Great great great grandma traded a barrel of whiskey and shotgun and carried a tender piece of sterling fuck back to the farm swaddled in her linen bootstraps. Her civil inattention was so honed she she walked over the bodies convicted witches for seven miles to keep her petticoat pure. Cherish her legacy. 

As I'm sitting here in front of the computer screen, trying to figure out what the fuck the fuck I'm doing, and I find just exactly what I need to do. I've been sitting here for two hours. The only time I take a nap is sometimes, for when I finally lose a bet or two and I'm all over the place with it, like, 'What the fuck am I doing here?' Like if I'm like, 'What the fuck am I doing, and I'm not even making bets?' I'll take a couple minutes to sit down and have some tea and I'll actually get into the rhythm of the shit. Now, just because I have all these things in my head to do, I'm actually doing all the fucking shit I need to do, and the only reason I'm sitting here is, I'm sitting here to do it...

Now I realize there's a lot of shit going on outside and I have a lot other shit going on inside me, that there's just no possible way I could have gotten the shit.

Author's note: A lot of the text on this site is bot generated. It's kind of like a weird Lorem Ipsum for me. This particular paragraph above is pretty potty mouth. Shame. However, I kind of like it. Went with it.