Oh god. I just spent three quarters of my day licking myself. I just sit here, with a bowl of water, some toys and my urges – lonely one minute and satisfied the next. Such a wicked paradox. I need to get out. I need to meet people. But I’m happy this way. It feels good. So good. But my crotch shouldn’t define me. Was it the way I was raised? Did my dad bury his face in his crotch for hours on end? Not dad. I never smelt it on his breath. Well maybe once, but I can’t be sure that was crotch. The guy ate garbage like it was going out of style. But really, some pages are better left unturned. Am I the only one? I doubt it. That Rottweiler probably treats his nether regions like a buffet. Look at me. I’m justifying my lack of discipline by making up stories about other dogs I don’t even know. I need a drink. Then I need to lick my crotch. More like want. Is that selfish? Self-pleasuring myself for half a day? Screw it. I’m going in. If my owner could do it, he would. So it’s perfectly natural. Isn’t it? I need a distraction. That ball looks okay. Oh crap. I need something new. Something that doesn’t involve my crotch. It’s all I’ve got. My walker’s cool, but I can’t lick his crotch. It’s gonna take everything I’ve got to make it through the night. Just one night.
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