My entire life I was following the false teachers. I had a Mother. She believed She could plant in our hearts the Main Word in two galaxies. She didn't have much luck. Once they trashed me down on a white tabouret. In the Bermuda-fucking-triangle a financial mayhem of our family took place. Our father rose on his feet as a champion, angrier than inevitably aging Tom Cruise. And I haven't learnt how to say it by looking directly into Her eyes: MOTHER, I LOVE YOU. I had faith in God, too. He disappointed me, this God of mine. He's an asshole. I've been drowning for ages, but He didn't prohibit a thing, didn't intervene nor urged me. He offered one thing, one thing only He whispered to my ear, peacefully, tearfully sweet: Come back, come back to the House of Mine. Come back to the place your heart lies, so we could be together again. But no, buddy, nooo! I'd rather kill my blessed Schlong as if I were to die the moment I cum. Still do. Do you think its easy to be a perv? What is it like to carry the name of Childers? I am in a constant trance. I am martyr, I am a saint and a fiend at the same time; at the same sitting I'm James pedophile Bond interested in Lolitas and his soft penis. But - he's dressed in a soutane. Beware, you suppermomies, oh, you IKEAian freaks, you fifty shades about nothing. Willie Childers babbling here. A sperminator, a suicide-case, and I'm a lazy C word. Not some poet-to-be
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