“Shortcuts lead to long delays,” warns an ancient adage recently coopted by a high priestess of the death-cult’s Ministry of Expansive Thought, and retooled to feign consequence exemption, and recission, for fugly suicidal sex-workers doomed to beg for dominance among a socially tortured, self-loathing clientele panged by potential-drain of such severity that they impossibly can achieve erections by but vicarious dalliance with women so strategically ugly, on the Expanded Plantation.
“Together, we can enable me and other slow-suicides of self-indulgent mediocrity!,” farted faint-hearted whore-harlequin vocal-fry-face Ginger Banks, a 3 out of 10 on a good day, who, though imploding, yet vainly inveighs that vile volition alone drains her awkward claims to a reign which, at best, arrests attention for about an hour, dimly lit, of a like-suicide-minded dimwit.
“The most important thing to remember is — I don’t even look like a monster!,” frothed Raven Harth sensually, whom, she sasses, quilts envy for the quality of her stitching: A legendarily unattractive woman who, from now until her end, must settle for being settled for by failing, falling men.
Thus onward marched matted matriarchs, martyrs of their cause: Of ingesting feces, spreading throat-disease — and “loving their haters,” one and all.
Then the Lost Generation of integrity-celibate, self-fingering celebrities pretty much just started dropping dead — often enough through self-murder, else by too continually imbibing cocktails concocted for mood-stabilizing by mind-tranquilizing; some sank clung to the mental-dung that, “Lust, once invested, surely will rally each and every of my enablers in our Uncanny Valley of self-worship!”
Yet “impossibly,” as she pretended it, men so low as to be her ‘fan’ inevitably had exactly as much loyalty — id est endurance of morality — as did she.