These are my awards. From army.
I have a hard time paying attention to/doing math because all I can think about the whole time is the one asshole who stepped outside one day fucking years ago and was like “THERE’S FUCKIN ONE OF THESE APPLES. THAT’S THE AMOUNT. YOU CALL IT ONE. RIGHT OVER THERE? THERE’S ONE MORE. THAT’S TWO, MOTHERFUCKER. TWO APPLES. THAT’S WHAT WE’RE CALLING IT NOW.”
Like, who the fuck are you? Cocky bitch, making shit up.
Seriously, math was pulled out of some guys royal ass. RANT FOR THE DAY.
We have only had one conversation, and that was on Facebook. And it just so happened to be about breasts. So you now think, random boy that I’ve never actually met, that this is validation for you to get up on my Facebook wall and call me TITS MCGEE, fully giving away that you now associate me with breasts?!
TO ANYBODY THAT I TALK TO ON A REGULAR BASIS, feel free to call me Tits McGee. But just because we spoke ONCE about it does not validate that kind of LANGUAGE, YOUNG MAN. And please. Do no proceed to ask me “where the party at?!”. I am not TELLING you where the party is at, Douche McFace. I plan on doing no partying with such a kind. Your jests are not funny.
See, I like booby jokes. Actually, I love booby jokes. But when a stranger hasn’t even seen me in person, in all my booby glory, and they’ve had one conversation with me, and all they have to say is “HEY TITS MCGEE”. No. No wonder you do not have a girlfriend. No wonder you need to ask where the party is at. You is REALLY REALLY DUMB. If you were mah bff chillin at da crib an holla’d out “TITS MCGEEEEE” I’d laugh me behind off. But no. Ya stoopid. Hop off leJock.
And now proceeds the calming myself down process.
Where did all the boys with proper courting techniques (aka game) go?
