You and that vapid whore you call a wife are fired.

You're on thin ice.

Sugar-tits!

[N]o one thought I needed counseling.

We can agree to disagree.

I want to hold your shoulders down to the ground while your sister takes your scrot and your scalp and makes them into a fucking face mask for us.

Us? Who, pray tell, is "us?". I had a feeling you weren't working alone. I suspect you're reticent to tell me who it really is you're working "hand-in-glove" with. Anyway. Look, I feel like I don't know you anymore. Oh, right, well, I guess I had my chance to be close to you; and that time is through. I think you may have me confused with someone else, though. I won't tell you why, however, because I know you're tryna run game on me and extract personal information about my kin folk (of which you have no business knowing). Here's an idea: go piss up a flagpole. Do it for America! The breadcrumbing has failed. Abort mission. Don't make Nunya's connection to The Mob have to slit you from scrot to knave. That'd be a real fucking shame. I know your fantasy. You want to hold me down and RAPE me. But please, not before I've had my coffee. I'm in no mood to be contracting AIDS from the likes of you. If I were gonna do it, I'd do it a very different way, and go the "whole hog." I never did bed a hooker, nor did I go down on one. Not could I. Imagine all the cocks you'd taste. I knew a guy who did knock boots with a lady of the night; he was a fat loser, and get this - lost his virginity that way. Sad. I know. So, y'know, I once thought you were the new Crowley. Now you're looking more like a humourless LaVey in a gimp suit. And what's this business of losing weight about, anyway? Are you not a Mother? A Lady of Leisure? A big, beautiful woman? How could I forget the homunculi that climbed the corporate ladder into your balloon knot? How could I forget the Egg up your ass, and the Magical Otter debacle? We've been through some wild sagas, you and I. Tell you what, don't be a stranger ... See you in Hell. If you don't make it, I'll send you a postcard.

I no longer experience emotions.

That's because you're numbed out on drugs, and your receptors are fried.

Whore.

Fuck you.

Drawing On the Right Side of the Brain by Betty Edwards. I bet you’d like it.

Thanks. I'll look into it.

Honestly, I just wondered what you got out of it? If you’re that desperate for reading material there are lots of good books out there. You don’t have to settle for Jack’s non sequitur.

I have a huge stack of books next to my bed stand, and I'm constantly reading. Usually before bed. But Jack's posts do amuse me. Are you reading any good books?