I am not the Carter Bryson you think I am.

I am not him. Can I help it if my parents happened to name me the same name as the most heinous crimimal of the 20th Century? I am one of the few people who is happy that it is a new century, because I feel like it is the only way I can redeem myself. I think I will start by doing good deeds and trying to procede with care, respect and intellgence. Don't cum here looking for some kind of twisted retrtibution, or kinky sex stuff like in the past. I have found my way now, and it is with Him. I'm not wearing no longer those assless pants or cockring on my toes, bangels, and buables, beads, and corny confessions, forget about it! If you're looking for the big peniz photographs, we have a few left, but the money is all going to a good cause, the Church of Carter's dick, that's where. If you want to come over, you have to decipher the phone message that is hidden encoded in this very paragraph and bring the extra large rubbers, and some black current preserves, my favorite fun food currently! OK and blue bonnet margerine, and maybe buttermilk. I really can go for the buttmilk these days, you know. Eighteen or over please. Hurt, Curarter.