If I were a cowboy, I'd never have to check my leathers. If we lived just after the gold rush, before San Francisco was civilized but after it got rich, I could walk in full bestial glory as the depraved monster I am.
Alas, now is now, and I have to keep my bad organ grinding monkey on a leash. All my bastard impulses, those preoccupations involving stocks and manacles, memories of cheeks paddled hawt and pink; all this and more barely contained on one slender tether, a line I hold loosely.
Oh, shit. Sit in the pond and shit, fishfacefucker!
My monkey's gotten hisself free again!
*Good job, bad monkey*
Ahem...
