I think I broke it.

How in the hell do you get one?

A Dutch chick that is.

I see them everywhere. There's one across the hall. There is one in my transcendantal idealism of Hegel and Kant class. Yet there's never one in my bed.

I don't think I want one. I need one. No French salope will do. Only Dutch.

This all started on Tuesday. The day I walk to the bibliothèque. All I wanted was little Heidegger. But I think I now know why Descartes loved the Netherlands--and it wasn't the reefer. It was the hot Dutch ass that has an effect on the nether regions.

I was searching the shelves for my ellusive book. Having no luck I decided to search elsewhere. That's when I saw her. The girl of my mastabatory dreams from the past eight years. There she was. In human form no less. I decided I was going to do her. On the hood of my new Citroën C2. Right after I killed her spindly Portuguese boyfriend.

Then I realized he probably knew ninjitsui or some shit. Dammit.

Man I need some or I'm going to turn into this guy.

Fini.