It’s been a great year! You’ve successfully made yourself look amazing in your online photos and people are starting to forget that you’re a socially handicapped pole smoker with man boobs who’s incapable of receiving or giving a handjob. By uploading pictures of yourself wearing headphones, people really believe you’re a skilled DJ and are lining up to ask you questions like “Why don’t you go fuck yourself?”
Your prescription-less glasses are letting us know you’re completely clueless on how to do something different and so you’ll do whatever a 12-year-old came up with. You know it’s a bad idea, you know we’re all laughing at you, but you did it, and now we can’t look at you the same way. Why not just get cornrows? Enjoy your glasses, hope it was worth it, but you can’t polish a turd.
Your existence is as depressing as a high school shooting and you smell like a yeast infection. May the passing of Farah Fawcett be a reminder to you that when you’re gone, your life and death will also be forgotten immediately. Except when we are so relieved of your absence that we drink five kegs of beer, then piss every last drop of it on your $300 grave.
You’re decrepit. You’re such an embarrassment that even the junkies are judging and scoffing at the outfit you picked for the day. Since you went traveling ALL THE WAY through the beaches of Mexico, you’ve noticed it’s not just local judgment being passed on you. You’re a loser even to men in “1 Tequila, 2 tequila, 3 tequila floor” shirts.
It’s people like you that created the inbred. You’re such a self-obsessed Twitter whore fuckhead that the only person who’s impressed with the pointless drivel you spit is your baby sibling/soon-to-be best friend because no one else can look you in the eye. Go find a room with fluffy animals you can make pretend picnics with, you loser. Next time you send a Twitter, just remember: everyone hates you and doesn’t give a fuck what you’re doing.
Next year you’re finally gonna make it to the big screen! Unfortunately, it’ll be on an episode of Cold Case Files. No one will know, or really care what happened to you. But we’ll get to see our city and surroundings on A&E and hear the sweet, soothing, ‘whiskey and peanuts’ voice of Bill Kurtis. You’re lucky numbers are nine, one and one.
You’re a bloated washed up midget. When you open your chubby mouth your jowls give us wood because they look like bouncing tits. It’s time for that gastric bypass surgery because you’ve gone gordo, which is Spanish for fat. All the king’s hookers and all the king’s blow, can’t trim your gunt… to the gym you must go. Just to be clear: lose weight.
Nice v-neck tee. Keep bleaching those denim tights and no one will ever see the mounds of blow that’s fallen from your nose. The emo music will help keep your head down while you proceed to bullshit everyone on how much “work” you do and all the “art” you’ve been creating.
There is a ghost lingering in your residence. It watches you pick your nose, stretch your genitals and play doctor with yourself. That ghost that used to be repulsed by you is lately so intrigued with you that while you sleep it picks your nose, stretches your gentials and plays doctor with you. At night it sleeps inside your bacon cave, and when you fart in the morning: that’s actually you blowing the ghost out of your ass. There’s nothing wrong with having a ghost give you the feelies, but your one in particular was a sodomite.
The people in your gym are calling you “pork back with no ribs” which I guess is better than those in your workplace that call you “Devil wears Winners.” If defeat had an image, it would be you. The last time you went to an all-you-can-eat buffet the chef blew his leg trying to keep up with your orders. Put all your clothes in a suitcase, hold it over your head and round around the block 10 times.
You’ve been mentally scarred since your grandma caught you masturbating as a child. How do you think SHE feels? She’s been as dry as a desert since, developed a stutter which makes her teeth fall out and had to start wearing Depends the very next day. Tip: next time you play happy and get caught, don’t finish… it’s frowned upon.
It’s time to get yourself a dog so someone will respect you. The next time you search for love, your prey will be the perfect balance of ‘high enough on drugs’ and ‘low enough self-esteem’ to do sex with you… during which you’ll cry. Date rapists are less creepy than you. No one should wear sunglasses in a club—but you SHOULD, so we don’t have to see your beady, bedroom, Jon Gross-elin eyes. The similarities between you and foreskin are uncanny.