Yes, you’re saying something. I’m cruising - and I know that and have friends monitoring me so that I don’t begin RANDOMLY KILLING WHITE PEOPLE (a little LENNY, there; no danger fer ****s sake!)... but I prefer the DSM DC of a manic episode, I do.

HYPERSEXUALITY doesn’t equal risk. I find my risky pleasure in SPENDING and RISKY (RISQUÉ?) SEX. I have been obscenely wealthy and homeless, SUFFERING THE SLINGS AND ARROWS OF OUTRAGEOUS FORTUNE, and poverty, um, really sux.

HONEST, I AM, DEAR: spending is better than any sex because it lasts so much longer. The Internet is the rocket fuel, click, click, click and I find my prizes, track the packages as they rocket RUSH to me and I open on delivery, toss the goods into STORAGE and shop anew.

We’re GODS when we’re cruising and we want to prove our deification to ourselves and everyone. Conceited abominations, we are. And so, so, so, so sorrowful about the MONSTER; brought down to acknowledge our unspeakable (mutism) shame (grave, grave depression).

Me? My hair is growing thin.

It’s all about the insatiable RUSH. The danger involved. The RISK. The dozens of credit cards, taking on dozens of partners, playin’ The DOZENS: ya wanna play the dozens? Well, the dozens is a game, but the way I Fuch ya mama is a *******ed shame.