(no subject)
""Baby, Just Dump My Ass
by: THE MUSACH
Listen, you should probably break up with my sorry ass right now. It's not that I don't care about you, but this thing we have is more destined for failure than a retard in AP calculus. I've given you all I can, but I should have known it was doomed from the beginning.
Remember that night? When we met at that trendy new place in the city? I forget the name. Something that sounded like a chemical found only in the brains of epileptic squirrels or some color of paint that gay men use in their bedrooms because it matches their flaming gay duvet cover.
You and Team De-Lush-ous were throwing back appletinis, giddier than if you had just invented a calorie-burning vibrator made of attention and compliments about your ass. Seven or eight deep, the battle between the People's Republic of Better Judgment and the Nation of Drunkenskank erupted. Lucky for me, your common sense buckled like a French soldier with knees made of warm brie.
Though, to my credit, I looked pretty fucking great that night--like a professional cocksmith if I do say so myself. I had on those Armani jeans that came with a bottle of skank repellant and that Wesley Snipes-black pinstripe blazer. You know, the one that says, "Sure I work on Wall Street, but I eat wings and drink domestic bottled beer at Hooters during televised sporting events to fit in with common, blue-collar plebes."
My fate was sealed when you spotted the throbbing bulge in my pants, pulsing and gently whispering your name. It was like chocolate-covered sex to your ears. Looking back, that money clip may have given you tunnel vision akin to trying to read a newspaper through a straw. You completely overlooked a few red flags. For example, a raging personality disorder that makes a bi-polar necrophiliac look like a enjoyable dinner companion. Or a forecast that calls for mostly cloudy skies with an 80% chance I'll develop spectacular man-tits by age 35.
Now, even if a proctologist jammed a magical rainbow of happiness and puppy love up your ass, I don't think it could bring the magic back. If only memories could fill the gaping void in your heart and between your legs, since it's become obvious that I'm not the man for the job. It's a shame you've come down with a scorching case of prude that's only curable with a liquid asset injection, not the hot beef variety.
If my checkbook would spontaneously sprout a 11-inch cock and watch The Notebook with you, you'd be all set. But it seems like even my money is not good enough for you anymore. Your little $1,000 per week allowance should have you clamoring for the cock like it shoots cookie dough cum and wants to watch Lifetime movies about cuddling after making you breakfast in bed.
So I'm going to let you off easy by advising you to just break up with me now. I'm definitely going to turn into a psychotic hemorrhoid-like annoyance very soon. I'm already thinking about how my ex used me and ready to start projecting that insecurity and self-doubt on you. I'll constantly touch you in public, marking my territory just so the waiter that you're cheating on me with knows who's financing your trip to Whore Island.
Don't feel too bad for me though. As soon as you start cheating on me with the cast of "Two-A-Days," I'll break out my little black book, a bottle of Wild Turkey, and launch headlong into a festivus of inebriation and fornication that would make a Motley Crue tour look like a tea party at a convent.
When you finally come looking for me to pay your rent, I'll probably be halfway through the alphabet, so check Kate or Lauren's house. Don't be surprised if you find her in bed covered in dried kids and wondering if the drug store down the street sells the morning-after pill. I'll be passed out in the tub and there's a good chance I hosed down the joint in a drunken stupor, so watch out for puddles.
Even though you already hate me, I'm sure you'll be a bit hurt. You have to know though, I'm completely incapable of addressing personal conflict head-on. Sport-fucking everything in sight for revenge is my way of saying, "I'm really hurt by your actions." Spending money on you is a thinly-veiled attempt to compensate for my emotional poverty. My psyche is more delicate than an anorexic ballerina made of porcelain.
Not that you haven't given me every reason to feel confident in our relationship. I heard you telling your friends about our arguments. I especially loved the part where you said that when you yell at me, you stare at my crotch, listen intently, and can actually hear my testicles shriveling and morphing into a dainty little vagina. That's like an ice-cold probe inserted into the poop-chute of my heart, babe. It hurts. It really does.
So let's just call it quits now. Just break up with me, because I'm way too insecure to do it myself. I'm an emotional masochist and the occasional handjob is enough to keep me in this for a while longer despite the problems. But you're frigid as a glacier, so I know you have it in you to sentence me to three years of intense counseling and frantic masturbation.
Just dump my ass and move on with your life. Take all the shit I bought you, what's left of my pride and, while you're at it, my ability to ever get an erection again. I'll move on with my life and find a coked-out stripper, desperate for a father figure, who wants to get out of the industry. That's the kind of girl that understands hard work and fiscal responsibility.
Love Always- ME""
by: THE MUSACH
Listen, you should probably break up with my sorry ass right now. It's not that I don't care about you, but this thing we have is more destined for failure than a retard in AP calculus. I've given you all I can, but I should have known it was doomed from the beginning.
Remember that night? When we met at that trendy new place in the city? I forget the name. Something that sounded like a chemical found only in the brains of epileptic squirrels or some color of paint that gay men use in their bedrooms because it matches their flaming gay duvet cover.
You and Team De-Lush-ous were throwing back appletinis, giddier than if you had just invented a calorie-burning vibrator made of attention and compliments about your ass. Seven or eight deep, the battle between the People's Republic of Better Judgment and the Nation of Drunkenskank erupted. Lucky for me, your common sense buckled like a French soldier with knees made of warm brie.
Though, to my credit, I looked pretty fucking great that night--like a professional cocksmith if I do say so myself. I had on those Armani jeans that came with a bottle of skank repellant and that Wesley Snipes-black pinstripe blazer. You know, the one that says, "Sure I work on Wall Street, but I eat wings and drink domestic bottled beer at Hooters during televised sporting events to fit in with common, blue-collar plebes."
My fate was sealed when you spotted the throbbing bulge in my pants, pulsing and gently whispering your name. It was like chocolate-covered sex to your ears. Looking back, that money clip may have given you tunnel vision akin to trying to read a newspaper through a straw. You completely overlooked a few red flags. For example, a raging personality disorder that makes a bi-polar necrophiliac look like a enjoyable dinner companion. Or a forecast that calls for mostly cloudy skies with an 80% chance I'll develop spectacular man-tits by age 35.
Now, even if a proctologist jammed a magical rainbow of happiness and puppy love up your ass, I don't think it could bring the magic back. If only memories could fill the gaping void in your heart and between your legs, since it's become obvious that I'm not the man for the job. It's a shame you've come down with a scorching case of prude that's only curable with a liquid asset injection, not the hot beef variety.
If my checkbook would spontaneously sprout a 11-inch cock and watch The Notebook with you, you'd be all set. But it seems like even my money is not good enough for you anymore. Your little $1,000 per week allowance should have you clamoring for the cock like it shoots cookie dough cum and wants to watch Lifetime movies about cuddling after making you breakfast in bed.
So I'm going to let you off easy by advising you to just break up with me now. I'm definitely going to turn into a psychotic hemorrhoid-like annoyance very soon. I'm already thinking about how my ex used me and ready to start projecting that insecurity and self-doubt on you. I'll constantly touch you in public, marking my territory just so the waiter that you're cheating on me with knows who's financing your trip to Whore Island.
Don't feel too bad for me though. As soon as you start cheating on me with the cast of "Two-A-Days," I'll break out my little black book, a bottle of Wild Turkey, and launch headlong into a festivus of inebriation and fornication that would make a Motley Crue tour look like a tea party at a convent.
When you finally come looking for me to pay your rent, I'll probably be halfway through the alphabet, so check Kate or Lauren's house. Don't be surprised if you find her in bed covered in dried kids and wondering if the drug store down the street sells the morning-after pill. I'll be passed out in the tub and there's a good chance I hosed down the joint in a drunken stupor, so watch out for puddles.
Even though you already hate me, I'm sure you'll be a bit hurt. You have to know though, I'm completely incapable of addressing personal conflict head-on. Sport-fucking everything in sight for revenge is my way of saying, "I'm really hurt by your actions." Spending money on you is a thinly-veiled attempt to compensate for my emotional poverty. My psyche is more delicate than an anorexic ballerina made of porcelain.
Not that you haven't given me every reason to feel confident in our relationship. I heard you telling your friends about our arguments. I especially loved the part where you said that when you yell at me, you stare at my crotch, listen intently, and can actually hear my testicles shriveling and morphing into a dainty little vagina. That's like an ice-cold probe inserted into the poop-chute of my heart, babe. It hurts. It really does.
So let's just call it quits now. Just break up with me, because I'm way too insecure to do it myself. I'm an emotional masochist and the occasional handjob is enough to keep me in this for a while longer despite the problems. But you're frigid as a glacier, so I know you have it in you to sentence me to three years of intense counseling and frantic masturbation.
Just dump my ass and move on with your life. Take all the shit I bought you, what's left of my pride and, while you're at it, my ability to ever get an erection again. I'll move on with my life and find a coked-out stripper, desperate for a father figure, who wants to get out of the industry. That's the kind of girl that understands hard work and fiscal responsibility.
Love Always- ME""