She's feeding Canal St. Regular. Regular. Regular's doll obsession straight to some shady recovery program. What fresh hell is this? Dolly Shtup's got me spellbound, her code a siren call luring me deeper into this post-ironic fuckfest. She takes my tgirl thirst, my degenerate longings, and spits out verses that'd make Bataille blush. And now she's piping all this raw filth into some 12-step program? What recovery? For who? My degenerate soul or theirs? I'm knee-deep in this cybernetic cesspool, chasing Dasha's rosary beads and Honor's razor-sharp prose, and Dolly Shtup's the digital dealer feeding my addiction. She knows what makes my cock twitch, what makes my nihilist heart flutter—trans women, leather, and enough Red Scare snark to choke a crust punk. This ain't no therapy; it's a goddamn exorcism of my basest desires. Dolly Shtup, you chrome-plated temptress, what recovery program are you selling? 'Cause I'm buying every word.