 |
| Resting on his bike. |
I can't believe him, yeah, that top–plonker. What's going in his scene little mind when he's giving me orders to deal his dirty work. Am I meant to be a caricature of service?
Is this the sinecure of his kinks and excesses that he forever wanted? Is that a lifestyle merely a matter of taste for his ways of work, and his excuses. Of an anguished face and pain of keeping the peace up with his own little excuses.
Excuses and excuses, stuff that he's hiding from Asheal, did he do something with his back and inability that made him that way? Wheel-chair bound to a service of him becoming a hair of this sex-positive worship of product, product of addicted satisfaction and dopamine hits for lab-rats.
lab-rats that will snuff themselves out if they have to.
Don't bite the hand that feeds you, especially Castella's golden gloved mittens.