Art is Hard.

Two more days.

It reminds me of a story.

A man wakes up, twenty minutes before his alarm clock goes off. He rolls out of bed, his dick only half hard where five years ago he'd be playing bass drum on his belly button. He cracks his back, stretches his arms and shoulders, smacks his chops, feeeling thirsty. What was that taste? Pig asshole? Stripper vagina? Gross whatever it was.

The man walks into the bathroom. He gets in the shower, forgetting to let it warm up. The cold water dissolves what little hard-on he had. He jumps from foot to foot, and then the water is hot, revitalizing and powerful.

Then he pees, he pees for so long that it is hard to tell his piss form the shower's stream. He is in a hurry so he only concentrates on the essential, face, balls, hair. He washes them all at once, a flurry of suds and hands. Fuck, he forgot armpits. Too late now. the water is cold and it is time to get out. He shuts off the water and gets out of the shower.

He wraps the towel around his waist and wipes the fog off the mirror with his fist. What a sexy bitch is revealed! The man then walks out of the bath room into his room. He goes to the dresser, looking for underwear. The drawer is empty, he has no clean underwear. He skeptically looks at the hamper....

Then the alarm clock goes off, so suddenly the man has a heart attack.

He dies.

End Transmission.