“Look, I don’t care if he’s a guy or a girl, I’m just into boobs. Boobs and face paint.”
Look at this fucking Dealbreaker:
You’re An American Apparel Model
Okay, so we’ve been dating for a while now and you have yet to put pants on. I’m sorry, but I can’t introduce you to my family while you’re wearing a see through mesh bodysuit. I just don’t think my grandmother would appreciate an up close view of your vagina. Just a hunch I had. Ugh. This is really hard for me to say, but- I’m sorry, can you cover your nipples for ONE second? This is kind of important. I don’t think this is working out, and- no, I don’t know where you can get some more coke, but that’s sort of the prob- it’s really hard for me to have this conversation with you when you’re writhing around on the floor like a sexy jellyfish. Use your bones like people do. Also, you’re always rubbing your eyes and looking bewildered like you just woke up from a nightmare. Have you been sleeping on the floor again? Oh, this is pretty troubling, but you seem to have a habit of yelling “Dov!” while we’re having sex and then bursting out laughing and THEN crying. You know that’s not my name, right? And how many “corporate retreats” does your company take you on? You’re always leaving for days on end, and you always wake up in dingy basements. Your “job” is starting to sound like you’re just being routinely kidnapped every few days. Well, I guess that’s it. I actually feel a lot better, thanks for finally listening. Babe? Sweetie? You okay? Oh shit. Oh no! Wake up! Does anyone have any cocaine? Perhaps a Polaroid camera? Some sugar free Red Bull, maybe? Get me a flash drive with Girl Talk on it, STAT! A life is hanging in the balance!
