“If any guy ever WOKE ME UP to ask me what color my eyes are, I’d be like, ‘Fuck you, motherfucker! You should have every facet of me memorized because I am the best thing that will ever happen to you!’ as I detached their penis with hedge-clippers,” I spat to Henry during the 86729864389317409 listen of Dance Gavin Dance’s “Blue Dream,” which ends with a recording of a phone call asking just that.
I should have just kept my mouth shut, allowed (what’s left of) Henry’s wavering male worth to be fumigated by my strong female independence, but instead I went on to add, “Unless it was Jonny Craig. Then I’d be all, ‘Why, what color do you want them to be? Tell me AND I WILL MAKE THEM CHANGE!'” I said this in a very weak and feminine tone, with a hint of floral and batting eyelashes. Because even though he’s a veritable petri dish for new and exciting STD strands, and has rodent eyes, I would drop Henry for him like a sack of hot balls.
Henry looked at me with a certain visage that made me think he finally realized he stinks of sewage. “You’re pathetic,” he sneered.
I just single-handedly fucked Girl Power in its liberated Susan Powter vagina. I HAVE MY WEAKNESSES TOO, OK.
(I have no idea where Susan Powter came from, but go with it.)