So, let’s get down to brass knuckles, shall we? Certainly, brass taxes wouldn’t work. If I’m talking about sex; all language and metaphors have to be rough and edgy.
In my distracted, depressed and decomposed spiritual state, at the ripe old age of 22, I have fucked just under fifty people. Men, women and god know what else. Of those I felt I needed to scour with my abrassiveness; I have requested at all times,
‘Do not call what we are doing making love. Don’t call it having sex. I only want to call it what it is, fucking!’
Bet Momma Theresa didn’t know that about her little dyslexic and stuttered baby girl!
Fortunately, for all my viewing audience I have kept wonderful messages, chats, and Skype videos and have plenty of data to back up my current thesis:
Ambien Grace was born to fuck! I do not belong to the philosophy of ‘the love you give is equal to the love you take.’
As a self-fulfilled and self-proclaimed bi-polar egomaniac, my fucking was just for my perverted pleasure only!
Message number one to the girlfriend of the week:
I want your fingers back in me and your mouth on the place where we left off and then I’m going to show you a good time.  So maybe I’ll give you one more chance..
So, if you want your chance back? I want your mouth back on my clit because a little longer and I would have exploded.
I’ll try to shake Momma Bear loose tomorrow. She has a dentist apt at 3 so I could prob be free around 2!

So on and so forth.  You get the idea.  And, that was only our first date.
Currently, I am disrobed upstairs in the famous Ambien Attic and would like to interject. Over the course of five months this past summer, I had sex in the back of a truck, on a public beach, at a park n ride, in the back of my deceased grandfather’s Honda, at a muddy and infested with fleas, pond, up in my attic, on my parent’s wonderfully expensive leather couch (woops, did I get the cum off?) I’ve been approached by Canterbury PD with current girlfriend in tow. Pants down around my ankles and a shit eatin’ grin on my face. That po’ ole country cop just wanted to stick around and watch. Same goes for the time NH Fish and Game found us and once again, there I be with the pants down around the ankles.
I fucked in the grooming room at the kennel where I workd. I fucked in the training room at the kennel where I worked. I fucked in both bathrooms at work. I fucked in the kitchen and in daycamp at work.
I have over 17,000 messages about how much I like to fuck.
I had seen a commercial once about depression and how it can ruin your sex drive. It concerned me only for a moment. I popped a clozapine and a trazadone and got myself ready for some free self-love.

I only wonder what would happen if I weren’t depressed all the time. Perhaps, I’d be a sex addict. Perhaps, I already am.
Sex needs to be rough and mean and meaningless for me to get off. I am the master of my uterus and currently, the only partner I’ve ever had that has been able to give me an orgasm. Many have tried and failed out of sex and love with me.
My parents sitting downstairs; each keeping their domesticated bliss separate from one another. Each in their own hole. One parked in front of the TV. The other in the office. I enjoy the split second timing of Mother Theresa meandering upstairs to the attic. The thrill of her possibly catching me in the act of pleasuring myself.
To me that is the only drug not prescribed via the every six weeks therapist that relieves my anger. To me fucking is what I deserve. To me I am only an extension of that primal need. The lack of depth to masturbating is the soul to my world of endless loneliness.

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