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“Oh stop, you love your boobs. You can have an incredible rack or cook without ruining your shirt, but not both. It’s cosmic balance.”
“Sometimes it’s better to observe quietly. Don’t mistake my silence for disinterest.”
“Wanting to fuck you has nothing to do with whether or not I like you.”
I guess I can relate to the cat who died of curiosity because it turns out I have just as little self-control.
If men have one thing, it’s the audacity. Cue the drunken asshole who looks like he has at least one photo of himself holding a fish on his dating profiles. The type who thinks he’s God’s gift to women, but can never actually land one. Including me.
“If your dick is too small to get past my ass, that’s all you had to say.”
“The only companionship you deserve is in the blowup section of your favorite sex shop, plastic women are the only ones that’ll put up with your shit personality.”
“It’s perfect too, because the dolls are great listeners since you like the sound of your own voice so much. I’m sure they have ones you’ll be able to get it up for, I hear they can customize them to look like your mother. That’s what you’re into, right? I mean, she’s the only woman who will ever love you.”
“Even if I did want you, with your low IQ and receding hairline, I’m obviously too much woman for you. So take your short, balding as...
This highlight has been truncated due to consecutive passage length restrictions.
To be fair, my knowledge of the mafia comes from true crime documentaries and romance novels—so it’s more than possible that I’m wrong—
“You’re insufferable.” “And yet, here you are. Suffering,” I
1972 gran torino.
I’m no one’s savior, but I can be this man’s karma.
