Steamed ass beckons the absurd nature of human psyche. A fragile sliver of happiness resting on the sharp edge of a steel blade. One's entire existance prepared in such a way to unlock the delicate texture and succulent fragrance without sacrificing nourishment. Yet the the slightest whisper of the wind splits the seams: allowing exhausted fumes of hope and aspiration to burst from it's crevace. Thus, mimicking the posterior of it's lapsing creator. A steamed ass through-in and throughout. This is the most formidable paradox of man.

when you're hungover as shit after a spending a night drunk as a skunk