BigJimsWornOutTires
Kraken
- Joined
- Feb 6, 2021
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Intimacy comforts living beings. Its emotional bond of trust and understanding discourages us from cannibalism. Having someone or something listen to our whining and feelings of sadness helps us deal with the alien world we call home.
The intimacy a woman requires doesn't have to be with a man. A dog, fish, friend, relative, something that listens—or pretends to—like a plant, TV, or a picture on a phone. But what happens if the creature comfort can react with a pur? The cat lady—she's set for life. Or the rat lady:
patch.com
Work, exercise, internet browsing, and even painting her face with deception keep her mind occupied, which is very important.
Unlike her superior gender always thinking of new ways to make this world more violent, when a woman stops processing thoughts, ugh, she becomes a danger to herself. There are countless cases of women stumbling into oncoming traffic, slipping down staircases, walking into glass doors, and, in a few incidents, falling off of balconies. This is why it's essential women keep their minds active with something, like twirling a strand of hair around their finger.
Perhaps, now, you understand why some foids seek complications in their lives. "I'm married and seeing other men because, muh, it's complicated." I bet it is.
There are moments a woman needs something more than an object or pet, excluding Mississippi women:
nypost.com
A woman is as simple as a baby, which explains the kindred connection between the two—peas in a pod. When a person locks eyes with her, she might giggle or try to impress him with a brush of her bangs. As if saying, Look what I can do!
But if the male ignores her, she'll cry, stomp her wittle feet in a tantrum, or do something very, very naughty to get his attention.
Ah, yes, I see why we call them Baby.
Let's get balls-deep into the schematics of the inferior gender
When a woman discerns eyes watching her, signals squirt from her optic nerve to her soft, fragile brain to begin processing the imagery. The visual cortex then calculates the market value of the eyes and determines a reaction. If the subject is of incel origin, the amygdala inside this delicate tissue triggers the body's fight-or-flight response because it perceives the eyesore as a threat. Her prefrontal cortex then plays the role of a civil judge with blonde hair, blue eyes, and big tits. This part of the brain will control emotional feedback, providing alternatives to violent reactions. Instead of swinging her fist at the incel with maximum strength, she might say, "Fuck off." Or, "I'm calling the cops." But sometimes Judge Cortex convinces her, "It's not his fault. Just smile and look at your phone. He'll go away."
However, if the subject arouses her, the amygdala bypasses the frontal layer and sends the visual cortex an ambitious adjudication I personally coined, Whore Up. Her blood pressure rises as she tucks a band of hair under an ear. Next, the corners of her mouth elevate. Finally, her eyelids slightly drop as she bites her bottom lip and begins a thorough inspection of the prime specimen.
Ever heard the saying a man thinks with his dick? The same applies to women, especially in this case. As she undresses him with her slutty eyes and hentai imagination, her brain zaps a signal to her heart that triggers an increase in blood flow to her vagina. This signal includes a message, "Get this bitch wet." Preparation for penetration commenced. At this point, a discharge of feminine fluid is released from the cervix as the ovary spits out a little creep—an egg attached with dozens of tiny hands grasping. The fluid is important for the vagina, so the penis can easily slide inside. Finally, the creep hangs out in the fallopian tube like a fat hooker who writes threads on Lipstick Alley that no one reads except bots.
In this instance, the woman protrudes her tongue, her face reddens, and her eyes cross. She has initiated the mating invitation. The man will then ram his penis into her wet vagina, but first, he rubs the carriage against her roast beef flaps. She smiles. He then punched the motherfucker inside her. She gasps, her eyes widen. Some women might lock their legs around the male, imprisoning the subject. Instead, she clutches the man's buttocks with her hands; her fingertips dig into his flesh, trapping him in place.
During the one-minute intercourse, the limbic system of her brain will coach her to make him ejaculate. She could moan, mewl like a loli ecchi, call him Big Daddy, role-play as a victim, or shove her finger into his ass. The latter was her selection.
She was successful at acquiring the payload—the penis vomits inside her vagina. The testicle puke seeps up the fallopian tube, where the fat creep lies in wait. As the millions of sperm travel, the hideous egg grasps at them. Oh no, one of the spooky hands captured a parasite. He tries to wiggle away—BREAK FREE, LITTLE FELLER!
Brutal. The egg hand pulled the little fucker into its coliseum for the next stage of procreation: The Epic Battle of the Sexes.
Inside the creep, a micro version of her but hairier with two horns on her head, sharp teeth, and razor-blade fingernails. She's heavily breathing with feminist rage. The hapless sperm senses danger and shape-shifts into a smaller version of the man, except with no teeth, no fingernails, and nothing to defend himself with but his gentle kindness. He makes a heart shape with his hands as a symbol of peace. Her eyes bulge and her chest expands. Drool slithers from the corners of her mouth. It appears that his goodwill failed. He takes a few steps back—she attacks him!
If the macabre creature wins, she'll rip him apart like a furious monster and consume his flesh. After her short lifespan, a female product is conceived from the creep's digestion and defecation.
Luckily, the polite gentleman was too precocious for the angry witch and quickly wriggled under her hairy legs and manifested from behind her. As she turns to address him, he snaps her fucking neck, putting the grotesque out of its misery. Unlike her cruelty, he doesn't rip anyone apart. Instead, he pushes the bitch aside.
Seeing no other danger present, he exhales relief and sits. Unpleasantly, a melody from the past reverberates within his thoughts, recalling the time spent with his bros in the scrotum:
Tears flood his eyes. Severe depression succumbs him. He ponders, "Muh I don't want to live anymore." Aww, shaking my head, poor little feller—breaks my heart. He didn't ask for this! All he wanted was a swim with the other fellers. But the creep had to snatch him. And even after the kidnapping, he didn't wish to fight. But the barbaric beast insisted on a battle of the sexes.
He dies.
Moments later, a magical event transpires. Fluid fills the creep. A mouth manifests on the interior layer of the egg, and simultaneously, on the opposite side, a tiny anus. The mouth gobbles up the deceased witch. A tongue sweeps the top lip. It sucks up the brokenhearted cadaver. The creep's layer thickens with a juicy, creamy substance. A commemoration of the gladiator who battled the evil bitch and triumphed, the anus egresses a male champion.
In conclusion, women need attention, so their brains don't stop processing thoughts, rules, laws of gravity, and routines. But with the abundance of technology jackhammering personal beliefs and retardation into their feeble brains, women are submerged with too much information. And as you can imagine, that places their superior gender in imminent danger. Especially, us, Chads.
Warning, Earth, the women are indeed evolving. They're going to eradicate the planet of all incels and make Chads their sex slaves.
The intimacy a woman requires doesn't have to be with a man. A dog, fish, friend, relative, something that listens—or pretends to—like a plant, TV, or a picture on a phone. But what happens if the creature comfort can react with a pur? The cat lady—she's set for life. Or the rat lady:
300-Plus Pet Rats Take Over Florida Woman's Home
What started out as a hobby for the St. Petersburg woman has turned into an infestation.
Work, exercise, internet browsing, and even painting her face with deception keep her mind occupied, which is very important.
Unlike her superior gender always thinking of new ways to make this world more violent, when a woman stops processing thoughts, ugh, she becomes a danger to herself. There are countless cases of women stumbling into oncoming traffic, slipping down staircases, walking into glass doors, and, in a few incidents, falling off of balconies. This is why it's essential women keep their minds active with something, like twirling a strand of hair around their finger.
Perhaps, now, you understand why some foids seek complications in their lives. "I'm married and seeing other men because, muh, it's complicated." I bet it is.
There are moments a woman needs something more than an object or pet, excluding Mississippi women:
Mississippi woman, 19, ‘filmed herself having sex with a male dog’
“In my 17 years in law enforcement, this is one of the most disturbing cases that I’ve ever investigated,” Sergeant J.D. Carter, of Jones County Sheriff’s Department, said.
nypost.com
A woman is as simple as a baby, which explains the kindred connection between the two—peas in a pod. When a person locks eyes with her, she might giggle or try to impress him with a brush of her bangs. As if saying, Look what I can do!
But if the male ignores her, she'll cry, stomp her wittle feet in a tantrum, or do something very, very naughty to get his attention.
Ah, yes, I see why we call them Baby.
Let's get balls-deep into the schematics of the inferior gender
When a woman discerns eyes watching her, signals squirt from her optic nerve to her soft, fragile brain to begin processing the imagery. The visual cortex then calculates the market value of the eyes and determines a reaction. If the subject is of incel origin, the amygdala inside this delicate tissue triggers the body's fight-or-flight response because it perceives the eyesore as a threat. Her prefrontal cortex then plays the role of a civil judge with blonde hair, blue eyes, and big tits. This part of the brain will control emotional feedback, providing alternatives to violent reactions. Instead of swinging her fist at the incel with maximum strength, she might say, "Fuck off." Or, "I'm calling the cops." But sometimes Judge Cortex convinces her, "It's not his fault. Just smile and look at your phone. He'll go away."
However, if the subject arouses her, the amygdala bypasses the frontal layer and sends the visual cortex an ambitious adjudication I personally coined, Whore Up. Her blood pressure rises as she tucks a band of hair under an ear. Next, the corners of her mouth elevate. Finally, her eyelids slightly drop as she bites her bottom lip and begins a thorough inspection of the prime specimen.
Ever heard the saying a man thinks with his dick? The same applies to women, especially in this case. As she undresses him with her slutty eyes and hentai imagination, her brain zaps a signal to her heart that triggers an increase in blood flow to her vagina. This signal includes a message, "Get this bitch wet." Preparation for penetration commenced. At this point, a discharge of feminine fluid is released from the cervix as the ovary spits out a little creep—an egg attached with dozens of tiny hands grasping. The fluid is important for the vagina, so the penis can easily slide inside. Finally, the creep hangs out in the fallopian tube like a fat hooker who writes threads on Lipstick Alley that no one reads except bots.
In this instance, the woman protrudes her tongue, her face reddens, and her eyes cross. She has initiated the mating invitation. The man will then ram his penis into her wet vagina, but first, he rubs the carriage against her roast beef flaps. She smiles. He then punched the motherfucker inside her. She gasps, her eyes widen. Some women might lock their legs around the male, imprisoning the subject. Instead, she clutches the man's buttocks with her hands; her fingertips dig into his flesh, trapping him in place.
During the one-minute intercourse, the limbic system of her brain will coach her to make him ejaculate. She could moan, mewl like a loli ecchi, call him Big Daddy, role-play as a victim, or shove her finger into his ass. The latter was her selection.
She was successful at acquiring the payload—the penis vomits inside her vagina. The testicle puke seeps up the fallopian tube, where the fat creep lies in wait. As the millions of sperm travel, the hideous egg grasps at them. Oh no, one of the spooky hands captured a parasite. He tries to wiggle away—BREAK FREE, LITTLE FELLER!
Brutal. The egg hand pulled the little fucker into its coliseum for the next stage of procreation: The Epic Battle of the Sexes.
Inside the creep, a micro version of her but hairier with two horns on her head, sharp teeth, and razor-blade fingernails. She's heavily breathing with feminist rage. The hapless sperm senses danger and shape-shifts into a smaller version of the man, except with no teeth, no fingernails, and nothing to defend himself with but his gentle kindness. He makes a heart shape with his hands as a symbol of peace. Her eyes bulge and her chest expands. Drool slithers from the corners of her mouth. It appears that his goodwill failed. He takes a few steps back—she attacks him!
If the macabre creature wins, she'll rip him apart like a furious monster and consume his flesh. After her short lifespan, a female product is conceived from the creep's digestion and defecation.
Luckily, the polite gentleman was too precocious for the angry witch and quickly wriggled under her hairy legs and manifested from behind her. As she turns to address him, he snaps her fucking neck, putting the grotesque out of its misery. Unlike her cruelty, he doesn't rip anyone apart. Instead, he pushes the bitch aside.
Seeing no other danger present, he exhales relief and sits. Unpleasantly, a melody from the past reverberates within his thoughts, recalling the time spent with his bros in the scrotum:
Tears flood his eyes. Severe depression succumbs him. He ponders, "Muh I don't want to live anymore." Aww, shaking my head, poor little feller—breaks my heart. He didn't ask for this! All he wanted was a swim with the other fellers. But the creep had to snatch him. And even after the kidnapping, he didn't wish to fight. But the barbaric beast insisted on a battle of the sexes.
He dies.
Moments later, a magical event transpires. Fluid fills the creep. A mouth manifests on the interior layer of the egg, and simultaneously, on the opposite side, a tiny anus. The mouth gobbles up the deceased witch. A tongue sweeps the top lip. It sucks up the brokenhearted cadaver. The creep's layer thickens with a juicy, creamy substance. A commemoration of the gladiator who battled the evil bitch and triumphed, the anus egresses a male champion.
In conclusion, women need attention, so their brains don't stop processing thoughts, rules, laws of gravity, and routines. But with the abundance of technology jackhammering personal beliefs and retardation into their feeble brains, women are submerged with too much information. And as you can imagine, that places their superior gender in imminent danger. Especially, us, Chads.
Warning, Earth, the women are indeed evolving. They're going to eradicate the planet of all incels and make Chads their sex slaves.
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