Don’t give me that look bitch. All fat and like 30, and hatin on my cleavage. My cleavage ain’t the problem here. What you doin at a Gnarls Barkley show anyway? Snackin, that’s what. So take your evil eye and better walk on home, or else. Because you know I could steal your man for at least four or five days.
Men be men, and they like what I got and what you don’t. Like a dental hygiene degree from Metro Tech. Oh, and also my smoking hot Bally Fitness bod and tramp stamp right above my tight little ass. Where’s your tramp stamp? Probably on your forehead, from the girly magazine your husband has to lays over your face so he can do his business on you. Fact, honey: he’s lookin at someone who look just like me. Only not skanky.
Do you know what I could do for your man? I sure as hell ain’t gonna nag him and make him call me every ten minutes about the “honey do” list. Not unless on the “honey do” list is me. I’d be on top of the list, like I’d be on top of him.
He’d come like ten times in one night. That’s why he’d be back for at least three more nights. Then I don’t want his sorry ass around anyway—I just do it to show you who’s boss here: my wrinkle free stomach and pretty blue eyes and coal black hair and my little sexy nose.
I party, too, like your man used to before he met you and got chained to the kitchen sink. I’ll do a sex on the beach shot with him—then I’d do another, and this time hold the beach.
You know he’s lookin at me too. Even if he’s holdin your hand, and pretending to listen to you blab about why you feel fat—he’s still lookin at me, like when he takes a drink or says nothin’ botherin him. There is something bothering him—his chubby down in his pants from lookin at me. And that’s how I steal him, by just being sexy, which you can’t be.
Or I might just give him a handjob in the porta-potty.
You’ll be all cryin and screaming and making a scene. You’ll throw his stuff in the yard, but who you kiddin? You’ll take him back, but you’ll be sad for the rest of your life.
Well you shouldn’t have looked at me like that.
And even when he come home after I kick his sorry ass out, it won’t ever be the same for you. You’ll be all lookin at wedding pictures and wondering, “How could he do it?” Well, I’ll know how he did it, because I’ll be there—and he’ll be doin it to me. For four or five days straight.
And ain’t nothing you can do about it.
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