Sleepless Nights 66 - Whatever Happened to Crazy Frog?

I hate this naked helmeted amphibian with a fiery passion of  incestuous siblings.

But now that it's gone, or the fact that if I try to google search it, my eyes will set themselves of fire, I cannot stop wondering. Ah well.

I realise that I've been talking to myself in an amount which actually makes me stop and wonder how is it that I could talk so much to myself. That, however, leads to more monologues and the result will inevitably be an argument between the three of me about who has the more enjoyable portfolio; Teen Kasia, Cytherea or pre-boob job Sophie Dee. I'm serious, they've got so many positive points.

Back to the point though. I find myself thoroughly enjoyable. That is vanity, yay you for finally getting it right! I like talking to myself. It's like finding this person who actually understands, who is civil, who would argue time and time again but at the end we'd all enjoy mugs of coffee and get caffeine poisoning together. It's a beautiful relationship.

You... crazy... fuck...

I offend (My very alarming quality, they said. I'm sure they meant charming.) and would thus offend but I'm sure everybody feels as I do. We enjoy talking to ourselves because we're ideal, you don't offend yourselves (I do, occasionally), you don't get jealous and have petty rivalries (Wait, I do), there's no barriers to overcome (Are you shitting me?), and (I'm sick of this, you suck at trying to describe our relationship).

Well then, why don't you give it a try and ooohh, what was that? It was hard? Weeeelll, why not step back, hand the controls back to me and repeat after me: I am sorry, I never knew how hard it was being you and I am your bitch forever.

You do realise that the whole inner monologue thing while imagining myself/yourself to be a foxy young hot brunette with green eyes and wearing nothing but an apron kneeling is the lines set which differentiates myself/yourself from being... What's the word? Bat shit insane was it? If I could be in control, trust me on this, you wouldn't have a voice, you wouldn't be able to see and heck, you might not even exist at all.

AHA! But you don't do it because you're to itty witty scwawed. I'll imagine some tissues so that you can cry into them. You want a pink stuff animal too? Done? What's that? A really one so that you can cuddle with it and tell it you love it? Okay, I'll super size it and make it respond to you be gently patting you and saying 'I know, I know, it's okay'.

No you fucking cocksucking dim witted fucktard, it's because unfortunately, I have no will, I have no ability to actually improve myself and well, I don't have physical hands to shove up your ass just like you like em.

You do have a will of your own.

I don't. Think of something right now. When I count to three say it out loud.

Okay.

One, two, three.

Vicechester!

Vicechester!

No fair, you said what I said.

No, that's because you don't know how it is to express the moment where we said the thing that you were imagining in a typed form.

So if you have no will, then why aren't you a hot brunette with green eyes in an apron?

Oh please, you hate yourself far too much to actually allow that sliver of imagination to brighten up your day.

That's stupid, if I hate myself so much, I would make you an asshole that contradicts everything I say with well thought of facts, hurtful insults, witty retorts and make you sound like... Like...

A calm and composed you, getting into an argument with a fucking idiot?

Oh...


Eargasm of the day: