September Hits the Status.

Or, how I spent my life fucked offensive by CV confronting shit-distances and downy arsed livestock.

The Steve Routine.

Politely, I go the distance. In goes the baldy arse-bit and I'm driving come extermination-deep. I am refering to her in the doorway, soft murmuring fanny, children screaming at a distance, dark insights, big comers, we shit consequence, and spill reach-drinking onto the dark shore of tragedy central.

A deadbeat length-fucked lifestyle.