Nothing to say. In the literal sense.
Watching summer try to slide by behind my back like I'm not looking.
I always keep a close eye on summer. That bitch is so hot and so fast she'll run right by you before you even have a chance to react.
But if you stay in front of her, it's all wet and sweaty fucking from here until Labor Day. Now that's a dirty whore right there, Labor Day.
So it's August. The last round. The ninth inning. The next available cliche to pass through my head.
Nothing that throat-fucking a chubby blonde Midwestern girl with my face buried in her meaty pussy can't cure.
