And this message go to ψhoever the fuck told me to buy Sea Breeze soap. Noψ, number one: I feel cleaner than I ever have. I'm not gonna lie, you probably can eat off my legs; I'm so clean. I'm talking about I'm exfoli-motherfucking-iated. Number tψo: you should have told me not to get it on my booty hole; it feel like I shoved 2 crushed peppermints up there. Every time I fart, it smell like Christmas. You should have told me it ψas for extremities, not in-xtremities. And number one, I didn't even go back there on purpose. I ψas ψashing my back, and the suds rolled doψn, doψn to my motherfucking crack, and it felt like a cool breeze. Noψ I knoψ ψhy they call it Sea Breeze! Baby, it got the tangling like a Dr. Bronner's soap bath. I ψill not be using Sea Breeze back there ever again. I ψill not be ψashing my back ψith Sea Breeze. Sea Breeze ψill only be used on the legs and the arms. Maybe the tummy, but it ψill never be used on my back again. Noψ that thing's clean as a ψhistle. But baby, every time I fart, I hear, I don't ψant a lot for Perigee's Eve~! Just like motherfucking candy canes back there. Candy canes just a-marching.
I will admit. I witheld that information somewhat deliberately, in an ongoing effort to circumspect what you might do with a newfound gift. Never in my wildest lurid-most imaginings would I have surmised you would accommodate your anal extremities (or more aptly, in-xtremities) with an impromptu soap suppository. I profess something of a weakness for imagining the sort of someone so willing to admit she possesses a certain crude, architectural logic for describing herself, and I must confess my diagnostic interest is piqued less by the chemical warfare currently waged by your lower latitudes and more by the plausible hallucinations that have overtaken you as if by prescriptive prestidigitation. Submitting oneself to an involuntary, mint-scented baptism by a sub-aquatic cleaning agent is one thing. Discerning the festive, high-fructose marching cadence of a pop-star's redux holiday discography emanating exclusively from your own hindquarters, however, suggests the Sea Breeze has breached the blood-brain barrier. I suggest a cold compress and a brief moratorium on festive themed hygiene. Though sardonically laconic to say, the all-receding mental image of Mariah Carey conducting a localized, tingly coup d'état within the dark recesses of your anatomy is an algorithmic horror I will forever be entirely unequipped to process before some #substance a lot stronger than morning tea in several hours. However, if your primary grievance is that you now exude the literal, minty ambiance of Perigee's Eve with every passing pocket of gas, I fail to see how this isn't a considerable upgrade from the baseline aromatic insistence of the average Alternian...output. But I will at least sheepishly profess some ignorance on that front.
Gill! My booty hole emits a cool breeze! A bit of ψarning on ψhat it does to a ladies butthole! ψell I can't complain about a squeaky-clean hole, boat!! you imagine mariah up there? gill you're the one ψho told me to get the soap!! you up there. stop singing, people gonna knoψ too much aboat me!