Adult sectors, really - mostly useless except for dealing with all the mad others of this hell of other people. Hence doth the interaction between gravity and oak tree lead unto bliss in the ignorance of said adult-ery.

Thus do I clutch at aforementioned blanket with all my early development might, and relish kinder, simpler, gentler times, before the movement of a woman's pelvis moved conceptual mountains, distracting and disorienting, reducing a bastion of innocence to a jumpy, smoldering bowl of perpetually simmering lust.

My cock is certain the human species could easily survive another epic deluge. Yet is such certainty burdensome inasmuch as it whooshes mind and loin alike the direction of anything and everything female that moves, doubt with respect to numbers of fingers and/or toes notwithstanding. The urge is as though global flooding is imminent, if not just a few moments ago. Neither age nor race nor creed nor absence of daddy wealth is any match for it.

I fell asleep gratified and satisfied, hundreds of millions of potential little me's circumnavigating the barren recesses of my girlfriend's venue of ache. But I awoke with a veritable crowbar in my hand, hungry to pry her open again and go diluvian on and in her.

And there seems to be no end in sight.