You’re an attention whore. You posted a picture of yourself in a bathing suit in November with the caption “thinking of sunnier Sundays.” Is this normal behavior; to be fondly reflecting on summer by posting bikini photos of yourself on the internet? Your tits looked perfect semi-supported by your black top, sticking out just enough to not show your nipple. The composition emphasized your snow white chest and freckles, your breasts shaped into a near perfect water drop. I squeezed one out it to that picture – you probably knew I would. I sprayed some avocado oil on my hand and imagined forcing myself into you. Your stupid expression turned into frantic moans in my sick head. Anyway, I got you to drunkenly admit to flicking the bean to memories of me so I guess we’re even. Sometime I masturbate to you twice in a day while I used to only be good for one fuck followed by a long nap. Absence makes the cock grow harder and all that. I want to fuck you but I also want to hang out with a girl who isn’t boring. You always listen to me with interest. These girls in Midtown are bores. They act as if they’re allergic to showing even the slightest interest in another human being, especially me. And they’re ugly so why bother? There’s two cute girls in the neighborhood and I’m dating both of them. I’m still unhappy. I’m still a cunt. I want to tell you to come move back to Northern California and marry me. Your faux aristocrat mother hates me because I’m poor and unrefined but I’ll still beat her at tennis because she’s an old woman. Put a little spin on the ball so she has to chase it.
You’re living that life though. You’re going to gain more weight and get the capacity for intimacy fucked out of you by tall grad school faggots. You’re going to get a 100k job in marketing or something and spend all your money on LA rent and student loan payments. Golden handcuffs. You’re going to be thirty by that time and you’re going to want kids more than your job. Your friends are idiots and they’re fat and they’re failures in relationships. These things are not unrelated. Stop taking advice from them. Stop looking up to that Facebook feminist twat while you’re at it. Slim up and let me undo it by getting you pregnant. That would make you happy. I’m happy to pop Adderall and play David Bowie songs on a piano all day. It does get lonely though.