I keep imagining the perfect girlcock—like five inches of transvagical spite. I’d worship it, write manifestos about it, maybe even start a cult. But mostly I just jerk off to the idea and cry about my mortality. Fuck, man. Spite Transylvania, why’d you do this to me? It’s not just about the dick, you know? It’s the whole package—the spite, the nihilism, the way she’d probably ghost me after one fuck and leave me deplatformed. I’d be her biggest fan, her most devoted martyr. I’d get a tattoo of her OnlyFans watermark on my chest and send her Adderall through Venmo every week. And then she’d block me for cringe. Perfect.