feminista

Poooooooooooooooooooooooooop.

Poop.
Poop.
Poop.
Poop.
Poop.


I want to take Adam.
Put him under my blankets.
Set him to high.
And get in when the temperature is just right.

Then I want my feet rubbed.

Then I want them to invent something where you press a button on your forehead and all your ideas are sent into the computer in a beautiful journal article so I never have to think again.

Ever.