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March 1, 2010

Oh, this apt image from the prehensile clay-molding tentacles of Articulate Matter about sums it up no?

Burlesquephalopod (Justina Kochansky/

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.

chirp. chirp.

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