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I am not feeling good right now. My cunt is dry and my brain is filled with sloppy brown molasses, cogging the gears in my mind, making me see dicks in the rear view mirror as I pull out of my mother’s driveway. Molasses is made by burning sweetness until it turns brown and shitty. I extracted every last ounce of sweetness from my pubescent flower, my little cooch, and swirled it in a cauldron chock full of soft words and perfume. I overthought it. All I got in the end was molasses.
I guess I can now bake a loaf of brown bread. Where is this metaphor going? What to do with a mind swamped in stale molasses?