I Never Used to Pee In the Shower Until I Met You
Ah, girl. You’ve changed my life in many, many ways. I remember when we were young. I recall the moment you walked past me for the first time; what water I didn’t choke on dribbled out of the corner of my mouth like a Cerebral Palsy, FAS baby with Sensory Integration. I watched your tight little butt walk out of my life as fast as it walked in, knowing immediately that I wanted to moisturize my hands with the finest Bath and Body Works hand lotions and creamers, and fondle you while watching Late Night with Conan O’Brian.
Oh, Baby. Remember back in the day? You in Community College. I in your underwear drawer. And instead of talking about each other’s day we would go downstairs and make sweet, passionate, unparalleled, Bangbus.com-styled, uninhibited hump on your parents couch. Ah, yeah. You would jump aboard my interstellar spaceship of love as I rocketed you to and through the outer reaches of our atmospheric limitations and took you to heights only Buzz Aldrin and his other cosmonaut parts dreamed of. I think. I thought.
Do you remember your love’s first birthday celebration together? Mine. Girl, I know you do. You stood me up on my celebrated day of birth. and you never called and the next day when I was trying to find out what happened I was notified you were at the mall shopping with your friends you selfish, irresponsible, self-centered, butter-churning Bitch.
Wait, wait girl. I didn’t mean to lash out at you. I’m sorry. It’s just that sometimes I still get emotional when I think about how hot you were and how damn sexy you looked in your thong. Ah, shit. Remember how I used to rip those things off after a long, romantic dinner which consisted of a pot of boiling hot, low-cholesterol olive oil, and skinny, funny looking forks onto which we would thrust pieces of raw meat and sea food, churn around the pot in synchronized harmony, to perfection, and serve to each other hot, allowing for our oral cavities to perfectly masticate the contents? And then there were the fresh picked strawberries and home-grown bananas and marshmallows. And the melted milk chocolate. And your Gap-For-Kids Khakis. Damn, girl.
I remember driving you home in my stretch limo of Japanese love, ready to carry your 100lb being of sweet, caring tenderness across the metaphorical threshold of your parent’s front door and pound the low-cholesterol olive oil living shit out of you until you lost feeling in your legs and lower abdominal cavity area. But you fell asleep in the car and then went straight to bed. You strawberry eating, dick-teasing, birthday-forgetting, man-hating, unfaithful wench.
Nah, girl, wait. Hang on a second. No, comeback. I didn’t mean that either, I’m sorry. See sometimes I get emotional when I think about how hot you were and how damn sexy you looked in your thong. Girl, I miss you. I miss how you couldn’t cook. I miss how you couldn’t hold your liquor. I miss how you always made me feel like I was your lowest priority. I miss how when we would bathe you would always keep your drawers on. I miss how you would slouch down in your chair and glower when we were out socializing with my friends. I miss how you would never share your feelings with me or communicate with me. Damn you’re fine.
Come to think of it, you sucked back then.
Girl, call me. Please? I’ll make it all up to you. I swear. I owe you the world. Baby, I want a piece of that.
Oh, Baby. Remember back in the day? You in Community College. I in your underwear drawer. And instead of talking about each other’s day we would go downstairs and make sweet, passionate, unparalleled, Bangbus.com-styled, uninhibited hump on your parents couch. Ah, yeah. You would jump aboard my interstellar spaceship of love as I rocketed you to and through the outer reaches of our atmospheric limitations and took you to heights only Buzz Aldrin and his other cosmonaut parts dreamed of. I think. I thought.
Do you remember your love’s first birthday celebration together? Mine. Girl, I know you do. You stood me up on my celebrated day of birth. and you never called and the next day when I was trying to find out what happened I was notified you were at the mall shopping with your friends you selfish, irresponsible, self-centered, butter-churning Bitch.
Wait, wait girl. I didn’t mean to lash out at you. I’m sorry. It’s just that sometimes I still get emotional when I think about how hot you were and how damn sexy you looked in your thong. Ah, shit. Remember how I used to rip those things off after a long, romantic dinner which consisted of a pot of boiling hot, low-cholesterol olive oil, and skinny, funny looking forks onto which we would thrust pieces of raw meat and sea food, churn around the pot in synchronized harmony, to perfection, and serve to each other hot, allowing for our oral cavities to perfectly masticate the contents? And then there were the fresh picked strawberries and home-grown bananas and marshmallows. And the melted milk chocolate. And your Gap-For-Kids Khakis. Damn, girl.
I remember driving you home in my stretch limo of Japanese love, ready to carry your 100lb being of sweet, caring tenderness across the metaphorical threshold of your parent’s front door and pound the low-cholesterol olive oil living shit out of you until you lost feeling in your legs and lower abdominal cavity area. But you fell asleep in the car and then went straight to bed. You strawberry eating, dick-teasing, birthday-forgetting, man-hating, unfaithful wench.
Nah, girl, wait. Hang on a second. No, comeback. I didn’t mean that either, I’m sorry. See sometimes I get emotional when I think about how hot you were and how damn sexy you looked in your thong. Girl, I miss you. I miss how you couldn’t cook. I miss how you couldn’t hold your liquor. I miss how you always made me feel like I was your lowest priority. I miss how when we would bathe you would always keep your drawers on. I miss how you would slouch down in your chair and glower when we were out socializing with my friends. I miss how you would never share your feelings with me or communicate with me. Damn you’re fine.
Come to think of it, you sucked back then.
Girl, call me. Please? I’ll make it all up to you. I swear. I owe you the world. Baby, I want a piece of that.
