It's me, your #1 fan. I know, that sounds so Annie Wilkes, but I really don't care.
Why are you so fucking great?
I mean, all you are is glorified ketchup. Sure, there's some garlic salt and worchestershire sauce in you, but that's about it.
I usually save you for special occasions, like when I'm camping and I've blitzed myself retarded at 2 am. Why do I limit my consumption of you? My life needs you in it, every goddamn day. Sure, I might be inviting tapeworms into my colon, but true love is all about sacrifice.
You exist in a perfect cylindrical-shaped vessel, waiting, wanting me to open you. And then, a perfect climax--dripping dowm my chin, into my decolleté.
You are all I ever needed. Whenever you're around, all I have to do is find some meat, and get it near my biscuit.
Story of my life.