What Sick Sexy Girls Think When You’re Churlish

By -

Listen up, dipshitz. The dating pool is riddled with blueborlz, vultures, energy vampires, and the occasional joik who makes his mom drive you to buy condoms & brags like he’s at a psychopath convention. Off into the void they all shall fuck…! But be careful: don’t let that be you.

Those who can’t respect illness and boundaries (anyone’s) have the worst kind of plaid energy: stale and smelly, redolent of old timey computer porn and slime. Cut ’em loose before your soul ends up in their trophy case.


If you’re juggling chronic illness, honesty is sexy and survival. Be clear about your needs and limits. Anyone who bitches over your reality isn’t worth the bullshit. Trust me, better to know now than after you’ve dealt with an emotional Bristol chart 7.

Being single beats dating someone whose plaid vibe is worse than cancer cake.

So pick up your dignity, and move on post haste. No more wasted time. Fuck em!

Chemistry is cute, but relationships aren’t for babies. And sometimes - Someone is actually nice. Those rare moments of kindness, empathy, and genuine connection. They’re your requiem to the bad dates. Hold on tight to those vibes.

You ignored my limits? Bye bitch.

You flaked on a promise? That’s plaid energy, the color of porphyria shits. Thanks for making my life harder.

People who act like others’ illness is an inconvenience? Your personality’s on the Bristol stool chart 1: hard, dry, and impossible to love.

If you make sickos explain themselves over and over: Google a damn thing, yuck bucket. I’m dying here.

And if you ghost… You’re just another zombie in the dating graveyard. And you know we makin soup (and LOTS of stanky tea) from your bones!

Comments

Post a Comment

newest coolest hottest goss 🩸

Who’s Blad? A Piss Fable Starring Tycho Brahe

By -
Image
  A tale of honor, hubris, and holding it in too long… Once upon a time, in the court of Emperor Rudolf II — known to some as the Holy Roman Emperor, and to others (mainly us) as The Pimp King — a banquet was held. It was opulent. Candles for days. Goblets of fermented whatever. People wore ruffled collars so wide they couldn’t see their neighbors. The reason? A celebration in honor of Tycho Brahe’s brother, who had just landed a major promotion at Spatula City. Brahe, a famed Danish stargazer and partial-nose-haver, was in attendance. He was brilliant. He was refined. He was… full. But etiquette was law in the court of The Pimp King. “One does not relieve one’s self during a royal feast,” they whispered. “If you rise, you’ll be hung by your dickhole from the tallest tree in all the land — for all to laugh at.” So Brahe held it. And held it. For 7 seconds (to Mars). Then 7 hours. Then too long. He began crying urine. Snotting Bristol 7s. He refused to rise. He feared it would offen...
more of this shit »

fuckboy tales: turdy lamebert act 3 (the magnificent manipulation station)

By -
Image
after the jazzlynn debacle, i kept turdy at arm's length — or, at least the length of my middle finger, the almighty fingy of gorrrd. our interactions became a fascinating anthropological study of male audacious bullshittery in its natural habitat. i would receive these epic romantic declarations that read like he'd plagiarized them from a 14-year-old's wattpad werewolf erotica. i'd respond with vague compliments like "that's sweet" or "you have such a way with words," which he interpreted as encouragement rather than the perfunctory acknowledgments they were. i should mention that a quick peruse of facebook on the part of jizzle proved he was happily married with 2 lovely lil kiddos. jizzle shat herself and peppered me with screenies. i never wanted more than friendship, & even that was stretching it. i'd ask about his day, & he'd somehow turn "i watched football" into some creep shit like "i was thinking about how...
more of this shit »

💾 the dirty qwerty, #006: suit up, slut up, slur up, then shut up.

By -
Image
💾 the dirty qwerty, #006 suit up, slut up, slur up, then shut up. 🩸 “slut” → “suit” “slur” → “suit” “shit” → “suit” 🧠 keyboard logic: • l → u: side-eyeable neighbors • u → u: no notes • t → i → r: we’re getting loose, but we’ve seen worse • h → u: ok but WHY • r → i: this one feels personal • i → i: thx guy • s → s: yasssss look. it’s being auto-puritan. you’re mid-text, dropping a “what a dumb slur,” or “she was slutty and proud,” or just plain old “shit,” and suddenly autocorrect says: “dearie… don’t you mean suit?” and listen: i’m not shaming suits. i own one. but i am shaming the part of the code that keeps hijacking the language of pain, power, and poop… and redressing it in department store politeness. slut-shaming? slur-erasing? shit-washing yeah. it’s all the same glitch. m’phone is trying to censor my mess. but mess is where truth lives. this episode was brought to you by the letter S — for slut, slur, shit, motherfuckin snakes on a motherfucking plane, but not suit today. ...
more of this shit »

Tarot: Wheel of Fortune

By -
Image
tarot card: the wheel of fortune -- cycles, change, acceptance. phyl’s “bunniversary” (not “gotcha day,” which i hate) is new year’s eve. i celebrate it because it’s special to us. her mullet haircut from summer has grown back. she’ll need another one soon. we’ve accepted the cycle.  i’ll snip slow and uneven again. she won’t care. punk rock girls don’t give a fuck. she’s got a mullet. she can see. life goes on. spritzing on my high-quality perfumes, especially lush, which gets good reactions. jessica’s anxiety is hitting hard, and i can feel the emotional weight it puts on her. not that i can fix it, buuutttttt i notice. tramp from lush… i miss it. smells like bitter herbs, and a forest floor -- tis a perfect distraction.
more of this shit »