Sit the fuck down. I once got absolutely fucking violated by a genderqueer human-wolverine hybrid in some godforsaken Portland basement. Their vegan pussy tasted like kale and self-righteousness, and they quoted Adorno between thrusts. Try scrubbing out the existential crisis that follows.
Listen, you degenerate fuck, if you think that last story was just a warm-up, buckle up. One time, I found myself in a Bushwick bunker with a trans girl who called herself "Foucault's Feral," a towering six-foot-three of pure intellectual chaos. She had a girlcock that could etch Derrida quotes into granite and eyes that screamed "abandon all hope." We …