Dead Horse Interchange

Yeah, it’s a quality rape scene. Can I say that? Oh, well, I stand by it.

He’s just bitter that he can’t gorge daily on entire strawberry cheesecakes at three o’clock in the morning and never gain an ounce from doing so.

I almost feel bad for her. Almost. She made her bed, though, and she has to fuck in it. Or, more like give a rare, unenthusiastic handjob in it, because you know they haven’t fucked in years.

True. Their union always seemed like such a sham. He comes off as asexual, and she’ll never find anyone she loves as much as she loves herself.

I imagine it’s going to look like shut-ins live there. Grass probably hasn’t been cut in ages, unless he regularly convinces some poor neighborhood kids to do it by plying them with whiskey or something.

Is she still with that pushing 40 manchild?

Being with Film Bald would be a step up for April, but then again, any man that knows what a shower is and has any kind of job is better than Spoony.

Splatoon still lives? I’m about 20 minutes away from him; I’m curious to see what kind of condition his house could possibly be in. I can’t see the man doing yard work.

I have a feeling this creepypasta will contain too many mature situations for me, but I can totally handle it, right? Of course I can.

We all know copyright infringement laws were created to oppress visionary auteurs like Brad Jones. This humble, selfless man-child creates endless masterpieces, and this is the thanks he gets?