..and I always dreamed of classics cars and movie screens.
''My fashion is my self-expression''. So if I guessed that lace top giving us lucky men an oh-so naughty peek at your mosquito bite of a tit was indicative of your crackwhore mum and those pseudo-shorts which I swear are meant to be some sort of exotic underwear expresses your urge to take it up the arse from the closest 6-incher in a grim pub toilet, I wouldn't be too far from the mark would I? I must've taken a dodgy pill or two the last time I was out 'cos I seem to have waken up to a world where dressing like an ultramundane slag is an aspiration for all.
Members of the male species are as much to blame in this matter for their philistine-like taste in subjects so divine. These 'jeggings'/lace top clad girls, who i'm pretty sure would be burned on a stake or thrown into a river left to drown/or/drown a few hundred years back, are now the ideal companion. I'm pretty sure if you wanted a girl dressed like that a mere 6 years back, you would have to go to the dodgiest back allies of London, not pay more than a tenner even though she begged for double and device a plan to make sure your mates NEVER found out. Now they are somewhat royalty, wined and dined to the highest standards. Considering the nature of these men, I apologise, twats however, as indicated by their penchant for feline beings, it is very likely high standard dining for them would be a MaccyD's meal; including the coupons.
Now don't get me wrong, I wouldn't be the quickest person ever to call the janitor if I found a peephole to Kim Kardashian's changing room in my toilet. No siree. But it's these little social codes, like actually putting on some clothes, that restrain us from being on par with Bonobo chimps who fuck members of their own family in, what sounds rather thrilling I'm sure, massive orgies.
Where my virgins at?
Yours Truly
Cunt
No comments:
Post a Comment