He kissed her. He touched her cold, dead bitch hands. Johnny, how dare you? You even allowed yourself to be photographed with her! It’s like I don’t even know you anymore. The Johnny I know would have run from her fearing her talentless-ness and cunty-ness would rub off on him. But, no. You, in a sense, validated her. Like she’s a real human or something. Don’t be fooled, Johnny. Peel off that skin and crap, and all you’ll find is a well (cooking) oiled machine. At the gears is a little, red fellow with horns and a pitchfork. Unless it’s his day off, then Cap’n Crunch takes over.
Images thanks to MK
