Dating in 2018. It’s like an impulse buy giving me shopper’s remorse.
There are no dates, you see. 90% of everything tends to happen online. It’s the way of the future!
Netflix and chill, netflix and chill. I’d probably rather do that by myself with my vibrator though, since it never lets me down, man.
I look at all the conveniently packaged options, wrapped neatly and sealed in a shiny can for me to pluck, ready-made. How exciting! They’re all so keen.
No. These guys are like a sandwich in a can. Seems like a good idea, so quick and convenient, until you get it home and realize it’s not what you ordered at all.
Ain’t nothing fresh about what’s inside. It smells like cheap supermarket body spray, and don’t even read the label. The additives! May contain traces of sociopathic behaviour. Will not text you back. Great. I can’t fucking wait.
If anything, I feel like I bought a styrofoam imitation sandwich. It looks really good but tastes like nothing, is hard to swallow, and leaves me unsatisfied.
Bu-uuuuuuurn to the power of two.
But, you know it’s fucking true. Lift your D game, mankind. Seriously. That’s another post for another day.
They’re the stale sponge cake I keep eating just because it’s there. I don’t even want it, yet I’m shoving it in my mouth to keep my profanity laced truth from spilling out.
You guys are mostly cunts, and now I’ll be a cunt too. It works for you, it can work for me, too.
I’ll sit on your face just so I don’t have to listen to you lying.
Everybody has FOMO, and that shit is contagious. I swear to god, my exposure to emotionally unavailable commitment-phobes, has transformed me into one of them.
I think I have their virus… but least now I’m immune!
But how could I ever commit to a sandwich in a can, anyway? Who the hell chooses that? I want to know where the real sausages made of real meat are at. I’m saving my appetite, for something still within its use-by.
This is like that time I tried to eat mushrooms and then remembered I fucking hate mushrooms.
I’m trying to love them, but I’m definitely failing when they don’t love me back.
So fucking awkward.
I mean.. I kinda like champignons…. but I don’t even have a can opener, bro. They’re probably too slimy for me anyway, though.
Like the kind of dudes I sleep with.
These burns are third degree.
They’re gonna need some cream.