(no subject)
I don't text you. You don't text me. And when you do text me, I hate you. I think about eating your babies. I think about slapping you with a frying pan. I think about the fact that you don't know me well enough to know that I regard text messages just as highly as I regard Germany. And I regard Germany about as highly as a removed strand of hair. From my buttcrack.
You text me and it twists me, telling me you don't have what it takes to pick up the phone and call. It tells me you're frightened or don't consider me the kind of person you can just pick up the phone and say what up to. You are silly, you are frivolous with your button pushing and your shortening of words that make me want to gag so I can take the pain of looking at your god awful text message away.
I give Allah daily thanks that I don't reside in a country where texts are as popular as people thinking they're still clever by discussing how they're going to bring sexy back. Every possible variable of that played out joke's been made. So simply, quit it, along with your ten cent pieces of torture. Pick up the phone and talk on it. I'll like you like the person you want me to like. And my frying pans will stay put.
You text me and it twists me, telling me you don't have what it takes to pick up the phone and call. It tells me you're frightened or don't consider me the kind of person you can just pick up the phone and say what up to. You are silly, you are frivolous with your button pushing and your shortening of words that make me want to gag so I can take the pain of looking at your god awful text message away.
I give Allah daily thanks that I don't reside in a country where texts are as popular as people thinking they're still clever by discussing how they're going to bring sexy back. Every possible variable of that played out joke's been made. So simply, quit it, along with your ten cent pieces of torture. Pick up the phone and talk on it. I'll like you like the person you want me to like. And my frying pans will stay put.