Rejections Are Tough, Faggot. Boohoo.

 

 

 

 

 

Listen, it’s not that I hate you, it’s that I wouldn’t be caught dead in public with you guys. You have free reign to try your luck at events and play parties, where I am already standing around with a crop, being pristine and fabulous, but the rest of the time – good fucking luck.

Here’s the thing: In my free time, I’m not sitting around thinking about how best to be your fantasy woman. I don’t lounge around my house feeling superior to my cats and using $100 bills as rolling paper, dressed in corsets and applying lipstick every hour. You, and your specific, personal fantasies are so fucking far from my mind that they might as well be in orbit. SO! When you ask me out, and I think to myself “Hmmm do I want to use my free time on this schmuck’s incredibly plebeian, common, total yawnfest of a fantasy lunch date, that he thinks he is offering like some chest of precious gems?” The answer, unequivocally, is a resounding “No.”

You suck, dude. You truly do. You aren’t a super hot young lady, or tall/slender/tattooed beardo who wants to buy me tiny cakes. You are some fucking guy, with a ponch, who thinks his $100 and glass of tears is extremely valuable to me. I ain’t some 18yr old sugarbaby who would die to own a Coach (read: commoners) purse. I don’t need you to take me shoe shopping. I don’t need you period.

But you luuuuurrrrrrve me, and you want to talk on the phone or send emails and fawn over my photos, and that’s excellent, and highly encouraged. Please do. Don’t get all boohoo about me telling you to go fuck yourself (literally) when you ask me out for a date, though. Look at this as an opportunity to cry hysterically while jerking off into your tiny, tiny erection, whimpering my name every other word, and please take photos of that and send it to me.

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