I hate Thanksgiving so much that fucking the brains out of some strange grubby homeless guy just seems right to me. My psychologist says that I have a..."self loathing" issue and that may be so, but I don't really care what he says. It fills a deep down need in me.I only have sex once a year, on Thanksgiving Day, and always with some drunken smelly guy who probably won't even remember who he had sex with by morning. He might not even realize that he had sex at all. But I would know, and I always. "Yeah?" I heard someone say. "I'm sorry," I said, stammering a little. "I... ah... I must've missed the... I heard about the party today and... someone said it's over, so... I was just curious and..." I don't think I made much sense, but she just seemed to be relieved that I wasn't a guy and so she opened the door. Charlotte was a pretty young thing. She was slender but had a broad frame, so she would never be thin, no matter how hard she tried. She was in her early twenties and had long black. More

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