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The figure that stalks around the corner of their eyesight, the one which stares The Squirrel down whenever they take another step away from embracing Humanities gaze, the one they recall on lonely nights with one paw passively resting inside their knickers, her, The Huntsman. Fitting cos they feel hunted, like she’s stalking from every blind spot everywhere they go, like the jaws could collapse on their neck at any moment. But are they terrified, or anticipating? Is the hurting they went through really the highest price to pay for the pleasure? The abuse is nostalgic, the trauma is beginning to feel like withdrawal, but what do we do when we don’t like the noise we’re presented? We crank up the fucking volume.
―Earth to Butters? Hellllooooo?
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I love you so much we’ll have to be together forever so I have enough time to say it all