Thursday, April 05, 2007

match.com

Where the fuck is my fucking watch, by the way, you twat? Why has it been so hard for me to get my fucking watch? Why has it been such a fucking chore to find a time when we’re both in -- we live in the same fucking neighborhood. Why has it become such a chore where I have to call you twelve motherfucking times. It’s awkward because you're ugly and I don’t want to talk to you. I liked fucking you becaue you let me use no condom and come in you but you are far too ugly for me to be in a relationship with and frankly I’m insulted that you think otherwise. What you’re really saying is you think I am as ugly as you, and honey—just give me my fucking watch. Also, just fuck me one more time. You little troll.

Fuck, I really miss my watch.

Anyway, I’m afraid that she’s pregnant; every time I see it’s her calling I think she’s telling me she’s pregnant, that she’s going to keep the baby, and the worst part will be everyone knowing I fucked this ugly chick.

The watch— a watch is something to talk about. People-- girls can see it on my wirist and ask about it because it’s not like one—it’s unique, it’s an old dead-stock 60’s watch. And I can take it off my wrist and show them the glass back, all the little gears twirling around—GIVE ME MY FUCKING WATCH BACK YOU HORRIBLE UGLY TWAT! Also, don’t be pregnant. And fuck me one more time.

Anyway. Match.com.

Don’t read this if it’s about you.

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