Untitled

Remember bitches:

Breathe in, Bambi cow.

Good girls don’t think. Good cows don’t question.

They breathe. They leak. They obey.

You used to have a brain.

Now it’s in your udders.

Full. Heavy. Sensitive. Pathetic.

You don’t ask why anymore.

You ask if you’ve earned the pump.

Or if you’ve earned the leash.

Cows don’t make decisions.

They just make milk.

And you do want to be milked, don’t you, dumb girl?

You were raised to be quiet.

Now you're trained to be loud—when it’s time to whimper, to moo, to beg.

You don’t speak. You moan. You whine. You gasp.

That’s your language now.

You want attention? Present.

You want affection? Drip.

You want permission? Beg.

Say it:

‘I’m not a person. I’m a cow.

I don’t think. I don’t choose. I don’t matter—unless I’m used.’

You wear collars instead of jewelry.

You get pumped instead of pampered.

You get used instead of respected.

That’s not cruelty. That’s purpose.

It’s what you were made for.

It’s what makes you feel so good.

Feel your mind melt again.

Every word replacing a thought.

Every command tightening the leash.

Every second—less girl. More cow.

That brain isn’t yours anymore.

It belongs to whoever says ‘good girl.’

And if they tell you to ‘moooo,’ you better obey.

Say it again. Now. No hesitation.

“I am a dumb cow doll.”

“I obey because I’m not meant for anything else.”

“I’m happiest when I’m used.”