If my genitals were smaller, I'd get more views. Life is a test. Memories and measurements. Who am I? What size underwear can I squeeze into? Should I switch to a more effective bathroom tissue? How can I be better?
Creating a fan base seems so simple for characters in sitcoms. What are they doing that I'm not? I'd like to see their crotches.
But online popularity isn't always about crotches, is it? Some of us can win over an audience with a keen ability to brag and complain about on and off relationships, and dying loved ones. That's not what I want for myself. Crotches are an easier place start. I'm sorry that other people have problems, I really am, and it grabs my attention. Of course I've tried problems of my own. They don't work, they lack something, I don't know what. Your success is an inspiration, but I'm still finding my way.
Where am I? A blog? Why don't I keep a private diary? Am I gay? It all leads back to genitals, of which mine are robust. I'll never be a Victoria's Secret model, but if I tuck some things in a bit, it could be entertaining. I need a support system no matter what I choose. My stuff is heavy. It's deep. I want to get it out there, but I can't do it myself.
I slave away constantly trying to be liked. A woman's work is never done.. Unless she uses her assets. I posted a toilet pic on Facebook two years ago, and it was the most magical day ever. People laughed, some cried, and it was all so wonderful! I'll forever remember that as the day I was reported. The day that ultimately changed the course of my life. I was reborn from the ashes of my pre-potty existence, and plunged into an abyss of revelation. In the human mind, toilets are directly linked to the undercarriage. The laughs, the cries, and the reporting, had nothing to do with my humorous throne. It was my genitals all along. My artfully concealed crustables alluring the population from a shallow bowl in my wash closet. Had the truth of my size been exposed, I wouldn't still be here today.
Deception, deschmeption. I want to feel that way again. The thrill of unworthy acknowledgement, my spine chilled sweat staining my extra sweater, the anxiousness to click every comment with the tips of my jittery fingers! You might not know what it's like, with your slim-fitted jeans, labial degeneration, and perpetual shower of spring rain. Social media can be tough for a dried up jumbo muffin. I almost never get famous. My followers are few and brutal, and I have to take pictures of my face. My face for christ's sake! Could you imagine? It's juvenile.
I'm an adult, damn it. I can't keep losing friends on account of my profile. It's testing my humility not to flash them. If only I had full use of my lower body, I'd get views like poop at a pig farm. Instead, my experience has been more like standing next to the world at a urinal. Why me?
All I ever wanted was hypothetical internet money. It's been a long journey, and so far my pockets are packed with unprofitable flaps. Should I not dare to continue to dream? Should I lay down my arms, and not reach for the stars? Should I always give up? Is nothing possible? Is everything that I believe in a lie?
I don't know. You decide. But I can tell you one thing, the answer might surprise you.
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