Fucking Tiffany. Whatever, you had armpit hair in your instagram shot. Maybe it’s good that you flaked. But no. The armpit hair kind of feminist fucks fast and raw. I don’t know what you MRAs are complaining about. Get with the times, fools– you never had an easier piece of pussy in your life. What’s more they love a good forearm in the windpipe with some weight behind it. Sure her twitter feed will drive you nuts but: I’m a simple man. I like to fuck nasty pussy. Leave politics to the professionals.
I like a chick with armpit hair. Nice sweaty day and she’s ovulating. Catch her impregnate me smell on your face. The sheets. I would have enjoyed my date with you, Tiffany, is what I’m saying. Except you fucking flaked as I was walking to it. But this is why you invite girls to shit you were doing anyway. Now I’m at the pond; there’s a Filipina bent over in a sports bra and calf high tube socks doing some kind of stretching routine. I’m realizing I should only bang Asians. Still. How could you have known that.
I want to text you something mean. But I know it’s a bad idea. My “no worries” was perfect. No gelding myself trying to reschedule. You’re fat and you have armpit hair. Well, maybe you’re not fat– except your Tinder doesn’t have a clinically lit picture of your full thin half naked body with today’s newspaper next to it. So you’re a hog. Still. That too means you fuck fast. There is nothing about you that says anything except: I fuck fast. Stupid instagram soft lit with you half wrapped in a sheet, top of your tits hanging out. Haircut like you got herpes from the bass player of the opening act. The perfect woman.
I’m trying to sustain being mad at you so I can milk a blog post out if it. Woman hating always pops and make no mistake: you are a cunt, Tiffany. But I can’t bring myself to give a shit. It’s a nice day. There are baby ducks. Instead of fucking you I’ll do back day. Finish Where I’m Calling From. Nice beef stew in the slow cooker. Sunday meditation meeting. Things get better as I get older, Tiffany, and try as I might I can’t stretch your rejection into something. Still: get AIDS, I guess.