I had to (and failed to, multiple times) login to my fucking scale. Like a weight scale. Couldn't login for shit. To my, and I can't emphasize this enough, scale.

Help! It's not even 9 A.M. and I'm listening to the Decemberists! How am I supposed to make it to lunch without growing a beard and rowing out to the lake to contemplate the literary darkness within my soul?

Burnout, expectations, and the perils of Production. Welcome to my small thoughts. www.patreon.com/posts/131688...

Me walking into a room, addressing my bf: Okay, f*ggot, let's gooooo! Bf: Excuse me, you can't speak to me like that. It's pride month. Me: umm... I'm speaking to you like that BECAUSE it's pride month. Learn your herstory.

The profusion of dudes in slutty tanks and micro shorts is making me short circuit on these Chicago streets rn.

Me: "I feel like I've replaced gooning with D&D." Bf: "That sentence is WILD."

In the back of an Uber at 8 am having a text conversation with my best friend about whether Zach Snyder would make a good porn director (the answer, of course, is yes)

I have learned on bluesky that many of you are sluts and whores. And i just want to say: Good job. Proud of you. Keep Going!

Hear hear!

In case you're wondering what horribly horny weirdness is happening on Patreon, head on over to www.patreon.com/benjibright or www.patreon.com/grahamgroans for the creepy collaboration of the year: Tales from the Creeps: 8TH STREET GYM.

I thought hoarsely whispering "fuck, where's my clothes?" was a remnant of my days having sex with a fratboy, but here we are.

Bluesky! I am in you! Thanks to @sweenmcdervish.bsky.social for the gracious invite. Now, can I take my pants off, or what?