Oh, this apt image from the prehensile clay-molding tentacles of Articulate Matter about sums it up no?Such is my sordid history with the cephaloblogging.
The posts below are primer sloughed over from that other dirty dirty space (no, I won’t link. That’s why FSM invented search engines). I guess this is what going legit tastes like. Same sciency smut. Less proximate porn. And, oh yeah — no readers. (Hi Mom!)
I think the background radiation over at that other place damaged my blogging dna. The site glowed with mutated expectations in a way that is hardly possible beyond the safety zone, and the frisson of pornographers, players, masturbators, fetishists, furries, inflatables, exhibitionists, inhibitionists, grapho-ejaculators, linguisto-retarded, cam-hounds, amateur egomaniacs, silicon strokers, and split-fingered prudes, with a few brilliant minds thrown in, all makes for a delicious bit of fapfest. (I miss you, smutty chums. Come visit?)
But, hey, sometimes a tentacle is just a tentacle, you know?
Aw, who the fuck am I kidding. As if a tentacle is ever just a tentacle. Go on, prove me wrong.