...since I've logged on. And, now that I have, I've got some recapping to do.
How dare YOU Mrs. Plop, toy with MY emotions. You lead us all on with your eloquent writings, your detailed, possibly fabricated past and you employed near professional flirtations to wrap me in your mystery. You promise an appearance, and then FLAKE. Yes, Plop; I said flake. It's what happens when tired, old swingers can't keep using the old polyamourous excuse to hide your fears of committment. It's what happens to worn skin when you don't take Daddy's stay-young-forever beauty advise. It's what happens to genital areas when you touch Messy Bonnie in the wrong places.
So, now I see. The flakes left a trail to the answer. This is all a Plop plot. You and Messy are in on this together. Kidnapping, randsome, all to fund your disgusting love affair and your pricy addictions.
And me... Plop??? The sacrifice? The hopless romantic to be used as bait, then done away with like last night's used condoms. I see. Well, this romantic has had enough.
The Plop is pooping; the poop is droping. The Plop has dropped.
Anna, when they all stand up, "I am Plop"-ing I'll be there with you and your tectronic torpedo tits, and we'll blow the fuckers away.