fuckboy tales: turdy lamebert, act 2 (jazzlynn’s wanksong)
so okay. turdy happened. it wasn't that big a deal.
six months later in a rented van full of weed, crossing state lines hither & thither, wind in my hair & my hares’ hairs (hah, cuz i brought the buns!), rockstar black in my cup holder, eating a frozen custid, living my best nomadic existence en route to cal-i-forn-eye-ayyy. my phone buzzes with a message from—guess who?—the ghost of douchebags past, turdy fucking lamebert.
the audacity of this man gave me such blueborlz i nearly pooped. did this assbutton seriously think i'd forget how he vanished faster than my will to live during client meetings? 🤣
feeling particularly spicy (maybe twas that thicccc caffeine hit from my 67th rockstar), i decided to test this idiot. "if you like me so much… missed me & dreamed of me sooooo muchhhh… tell me my name.” i texted back. i was prisoner in a cross country road trip. i was actually bored for once. 🤣
y'all. yalllll. this absolute stunting-the-wizard-hat motherfucker says—with his whole-ass chest—"jazzlynn."
JAZZLYNN?! dudes if that was my actual name, i'd yeet myself off a cliff. but it gets worse! he admits he's been calling me jazzlynn during his wank fantasies for six months. ermagerd, i was j1zzing over how pathetic this was. i immediately screenshot this tragic exchange to jizzle, who nearly corked herself laughing.
despite this catastrophic failure of basic human connection, i didn't completely cut him off. not because i was interested (hellz no!), but because sometimes watching a train wreck is entertaining when you're bored in a nebraska motel with naught but bad cable & frozen custid to keep you company. & aught would be better than that, even turdy lamebert.
besides, i wasn't looking to date anyone, let alone some kentucky fried creepsicle 2500 miles away who couldn't remember my actual name but had been polishing his telescope to fuckin jazzlynn for half a year. 🤣 the man was basically a red flag factory. 💜
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