Dear Internet Porn

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Dear Internet Porn,

These last twenty years have been quite a trip, have they not? My letter to you now, however, is not one of celebration… I don’t feel like we are the same anymore. We just don’t have that passion we used to.

When we first met I was a loser, and you were there for me. My parents told me that you were no good for me, but I didn’t listen. You showed me that there were plenty of people like myself getting laid. It was beautiful and passionate. Your soft core erotic videos were a tasteful introduction to my budding sexuality.

As I got older I started seeing girls on the side. I knew you were jealous, but you have always held a special place in my heart. You became naughtier and it affected my relationships. I started wanting all the things I had seen you do. I wanted to be just like you. I wanted to cover my girlfriend’s face, put it up her ass, choke her.

But that’s when I realized your dark secret, Internet Porn. You aren’t real: you are a fake and shallow individual. No girl wants a load on her face! Anal sex hurts and humiliates, and choking only leads to bruises that friends and loved ones ask about. You lied to me and changed my sexual expectations. Now no girl can please me.

I know it isn’t all bad. You’ve taught me so much. I can surf the internet with either hand and I know all the keyboard shortcuts for my browser. I know positions that aren’t even in the Kamasutra. But you have such a dark side. I’ve been late for work more than once and I find myself wanting to jerk off at six in the morning. That’s what you’ve done to me.

Even now, on the eve of Christ’s birth, I sit hunched over my computer, penis in hand. I had to turn the nativity scene around so that Jesus wouldn’t see your filth. Try as I might, I can never hide you well enough either. It is harder to find you squirreled away on my hard drive than it is to get into my online bank account. Yet there is always lingering evidence. I’ve told you time and again to stop leaving your things at my place. But you ALWAYS forget something: a shortcut here, an uncleared history there.

So I have one request. I know I can’t get rid of you… you are the psychopathic stalker to my teenage horror film. But if you won’t leave me alone, can you at least do me one favor? If I ever die, can you please format my hard drive? All of them? If you can’t do that, just burn my place down. My family can never know of my shame.

Sincerely,

Mike

 

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