Is it me?

Is it just me?
Sometimes alone from night to night you find yourself rummaging around in your neighbor's yard? The one with the huge dog, a German shepherd or perhaps some sort of mastiff.
You root around in the grass until you find a fresh, enormous log of it's shit and quickly stuff it in a brown paper bag you carry around just for this purpose. You stole it from a passed out bum next to the liquor store on 5th and Pacific.
You're constantly looking over your shoulder, making sure you weren't spotted.
You make it back to your dungeon and then the fun begins.
Your lair is covered in BVB merchandise. You have more hot topic goth emo trash than hot topic.
And there in the middle of it all you spread out on the floor and close your eyes.
The bag is heavy and still warm as you lift it over your head and close your eyes. You imagine Andrew DENNIS Biersack... (Andy SIxx for you newfag idiots) rubbing his tummy wummy and slidding down his leather skin-tight jeans.
*BRAAAP*
A greasy black nigger of a fart screams from the puckered lips of his manpussy.
The fantasy is so vivid the hair stands up on the back of your neck. You swear you can almost hear him.
"Open wide, fucker", he grins. His emo chains and piercings jingle as he squats over your whore throat.
You start to squeeze the bag.
*PRRRRRT*
"Ah fuck", he croons. "I ate some improperly handled shellfish products".
With a plop the hot loaf hits the back of your throat.
You know it's not the real thing but it's close enough.
The monolithic dung rod pummels your uvula and just when you're about to poom your stepdad comes down the stairs to do his laundry and starts to sperg out.
"Anon what in the fuck is wrong with you", he shills and you tell him to fuck off. He tells you he's going to tell your mom and you tell him to kiss your ass. He tells you to get a job and you tell him there are none and it's silent now because you both know it's true.
It it just me?