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March 17, 2016 | movie reviews

Dirty Grandpa

Sean Kilpatrick

Dirty Grandpa photo

Dear Actress,

People eager to work the word whore against an artist are far too Christian with the truth. You can bramble your bikini on a senile icon for the chance to say you did and I bet even your least conscious sleep grunts remain the shrimpy poems I always suspected you of purring. I’m all about the matrimony of your hijinks, if John Hinckley is our priest. Bringing the studio some edge to be like fuck my fanboys? I don’t know who penciled you into the tendency of a palm this whiskered and named the decade hers, but the subliminal advertising when you cross your legs just set our sperm up to take its own fall. I fellated each of the three ones I spent. Is this enough spit for the founder? I can’t even fuck your calendar with a sharpie. You once wallowed in your omnipotence. Excuse me, have I been paid attention to? I’ve been rolling under the joke that’s on me. But when I say boo hoo, I mean it dangerously. I refuse to take the bait and slur you. I pray in silence to the fucking billfold where your heart ate all the others. I crown you queen tesseract of the era in which we penalize our admirers with their most trivial death threat. You’ve done in my gaze. I was born to give up on you. I wanna burn down the hospital that led me to you, darling, because I think they used your agent to gouge me from my comfortable socket. Doesn’t your last name mean a kind of mall? Fuck it, every food court is mandatory, right? Is there a solitude the mere thought of you hasn’t wiped itself with? My apologies are almost glandular today. Perhaps the diamond I knot in my noose will be the right forever. I’m such pocket change without you. I had to reinvent you by the decimal. Keep droll for the length of a goddamn autograph. I try forcing myself to type you here and the hate is such a relishing lava. I mean kind crimes. Stay in a hell I can’t reach you from and I’ll paint mine with your portrait whenever blinking indicts us. You’re the best at hollowly reciprocating a sentiment you couldn’t spare anymore. I hope they store the bowel part of your liposuction in a parade where I can taste it. I promise all the skin they said you were cannot outlast us. The problem with Mephistopheles is he would ask your consent. I’m too puffy to be discrete. Join me, I will heckle your fiber sweet before it leaves you.

PS. I’m worse than the devil because the devil was an angel first. Everything I say has absconded befallen of its reputation into the government of a boy’s thought planted there as future assignment against his finding any business with the world. I write to key my own cum. That’s how I’m the longest whore to spread his scratch.

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