Nothing can Fill my Hole

I come home to my fabulous faux-renaissance palace and hover over my persian carpets in the opium den listening to my favorite ragas. My four fabulous akitausies file in, strutting their glammy beauty and leaving a genuine fur-rug trail behind wherever they step, smiling their adoration. I glide out to my multi-tiered pool with fountains, really more like a water park. Here I bob as a rubber duckling in the falls and whirls. Later, for dinner: all the delicacies that the local ShivMart can provide. My mother? Although living here on plant and does cramp my style, adoring and willing to commit crimes to retain my favor. Then why... why the hole? It's a hole and it's the size o' Texas, right here... [Chamatilly indicated a large oval area between her groin and sternum by drawing an invisible egg shape with the tip of her finger. The hole came all the way up under her breasts]. It seems that nothing, nothing can fill my hole. This hole, priusnear the size o' Texas, is all up inside of me.