What the hell is this? I’m sitting and being angsty at an undisclosed location to make up for lost angst time in my early teenage years and all of a sudden the planets aligned and two vaginas that were sitting beside each other being nice and quiet started howling like broken sirens. Why did this happen? I don’t know. Maybe because women actually have no problems. I mean it, girls have no problems at all except for one: not having enough people to talk to. Everything they could possibly ever complain about is secretly welcomed because it gives them some reason to open their mouths and bitch.

On a side note, could it be argued that girls actually don’t mind giving dome? Probably. I mean it combines several of their favorite things: opening their mouths, being the center of attention (sometimes), pretending they’re useful and have a purpose, and, as a special bonus, it gives them something to bitch about later. Perfect.

But back to this unfortunate catastrophe at hand, I have been observing these two females for a long thirty-nine minutes, who said research was fun? After parachuting into the swampy jungle and scoping out the surrounding areas I was pleased to find that no herds of females were present. Praise Satan’s spicy nutsack, finally, a chance to study lone females, a very rare opportunity indeed. For some reason unknown to the scientific community, females always travel in packs. Are they afraid of being mauled? Worried about being picked off like a dying lone zebra? We are trying to learn more on the subject but there are many obstacles, one of which I’m witnessing right now. Here’s the situation at hand: both lone females were sitting side by side, not speaking and pretending to be very intrigued by what they were doing.  The larger of the two could smell the other female’s hunger to join a pack and immediately turned and asked to plug her “laptop” into the charging port. Unless you’ve been studying females for a while, this would seem a like a simple and practical request, but it isn’t. What was actually being said was this: I can scent your urge to not be alone; I am scared of looking like a loser, please, for the love of God, talk to me. Incredible? I know. What happened next was, dare I say it, groundbreaking. The smaller one unplugged her machine and handed the larger female her charging cord:

“You can just use mine.” Translation: “Yes, I would like to be your friend”
“Are you sure?” Translation: “I’m a bitch and complain like a pro, can you keep up?”
“Oh yea, of course.” Translation: “Don’t worry, I’m a fantastic bitch.”
“Thanks so much.” Translation: “Not as good as me, but we’ll be friends.”

I won’t be surprised if I win an award for this journal. After the hymen had been broken, it took a while, I mean about two minutes before conversation struck up again thus creating a lifelong friendship. It’s very interesting to watch females communicate when you know what they’re really saying:

“I’m going to study law.” Translation: “Yea, I am good looking AND smart. try and keep up, bitch.”
“Oh wow, that’s good” Translation: “Do you really want to do this?”
“I was going to go to [most obscure university you can think of] but they just didn’t have a good enough pre-law course.” Translation: “I will crush you with my Ugg boots.”
“My friend was going to go there.” Translation: “I’m not afraid of you, bitch. I’ll call your bluff. And just so you know, I have friends, I’m popular.”
“Oh! Good for her.” Translation: “You’re better looking than me, you win.”

Fascinating. What happened over the next little bit was really quite interesting. As they contiuned to threaten each other, something happened, it happened so fast I didn’t even catch it as it happened, they moved from pre-friend threats to level one friendship complaining. You can take any two “normal” females who have never met and trap them in a room together and eventually they will spark up a conversation and any outside source unaware of it will swear they’ve been friends since birth. Especially if they have at least a single mutual friend. Mutual friends allow them to take their newborn friendship to the next level; it opens up the dam and allows a whole new world of complaining to flow free and flood the streets. Nothing makes females happier than complaining about other people, especially if the other party can match her complaint for complaint. Do they like talking about anything other than people? No, but they are interested in a few other topics: pretending they know something about electronics, Starbucks, boots, pretending they don’t need make up, fishing for compliments, backdoor compliments, their hair*, what products they use in their hair, explaining how drunk they got last weekend, acting like their interesting and have a wide knowledge base, mentioning how many friends they have, but all of this takes a backseat to one thing. Complaining. This is where real friendships are made. They will openly complain about anything and everything while making no valid points. They complain purely because it allots for a possible never-ending conversation.

Breaking news. The two females I have been studying were just joined by two more females, a herd is born. The smaller, more attractive, one was joined by her “best friend”. The larger one feeling like the weakest of the group alerted one of her friends who came promptly. Conversation pursued between the four females. Nothing pleases females more (aside from complaining) than letting everyone know that they have no acquaintances, only friends that they have know for “forever” i.e. two to three months. The smaller female’s friend has left and as soon as the herd was created, it was broken. The large female and her best friend of two weeks broke off into conversation leaving the smallest to fend for herself in the wild. Tragic. To keep from crying from defeat, the smaller one pretended to be interested once more in her computer, than her phone and back to the laptop again, but after tasting that sweet taste of female interaction, it was a fruitless attempt. She then preceded to gather her belongings and leave in. Upon packing though she came to a big dilema: the laptop charger. It was still charging the heifer’s laptop. If the defeated female had been a novice, she might have forfeited her charger, but this female was a professional. She reached down and followed her charging cable up to the other’s laptop, laughed, smiled and said some inaudible dialog, all laughed. After the cable was securely in her possession again, inside the belly of her purse, the smaller female said something absolutely remarkable to turn the situation back to her favor:

“Well, I’ll see you guys around sometime.” Translation: “Well, losers, it was OK talking to you, but I have a life and can’t sit here all night. I have other friends.”

The two large females remained seated and slightly speechless.

Incredible.

That’s funny, I was just thinking about how unfortunate it is I let you suck my nuts.

Girls, and the majority of this bullshit behavior is steaming from vagina laded whores, take a step back and look at how your talking to everyone. You look like dumb cunts barely clever enough to figure out how to suck a dick, but, don’t worry, that doesn’t stop any of you, now does it?

I know all these girls wanna look like they’re fun, life of the party kinda girls, but c’mon. We all don’t have to see it or hear about it. If we did wanna see you get drunk off your ass and look like a stupid bitch, I’m pretty sure we’d get a bottle of Henny or a keg and hit you up, cause that’s all it takes to be your friend, right? So, if I get you drunk enough, we can take pictures of us puking together and post them all over the internet? Maybe I’ll bring a blunt or two so we can be best friends forever. You’re idiots because exactly how it seems.

Melissa > John: I miss you!!!!! We have to party soon! I miss crunk fridays. lol!!

John > Kate: Lissa’s cunt is dry looking for an easy target, let her suck my dick give her jizz if she’ll use it. Caution on the vag lies syphilis and hidden herpes. Southern bitches always gettin’ drunker than a mafucker.

Kate > Melissa: John wants you to blow him so he’s gonna get you drunk!! Fuck that loser!! Lets party. me and you. I miss you bia!! <3 <3

Melissa > Kate: Oh no, me and John are just really good friends. We party and toke alot together. He definitely wouldn’t make a move - unless we were drunk, cause then it’s fine. LMAO!!

But it’s cool, your popular, everybody thinks you’re crazy fun. What’s a few drunken fucks in the grand scheme of “bein’ a kid”? Fuckers.

And you know, it’s not like I’m really that uptight. I could give a shit. I’m the biggest advocate of do whatcha wanna do, it’s all your shit, ruin it how you want it, but for the love of fucking Jesus Christ, for your own sake, show some signs of a little goddamn decorum or some form of intelligence. If you wouldn’t show that comment or picture to your mom or your kids, maybe you shouldn’t throw it up for everybody to see. Like that one really funny picture of you sucking dick, oh I’m sorry, it was that one of you deep throating a bottle like a dick, my bad, that one was actually very classy.

You guys are morons and more often than not, are you not only idiots, you’re also good ol’ fashioned dipshits that have some type of ruined bullshit filter on your good idea detector, so I’ll help you figure this out and get your thinking diapers on. It’s not like I care if you ruin shit for yourself or not, quite the cuntrary, I’d really like to watch you all fail miserably but I gotta just give you fair warning: once it’s online it’s there forever. “Oh no, I can just delete it or set it to private when I feel like growing up.” Oh, you think so? Once it’s been uploaded or you’ve clicked “comment”, that bullshit dribble you just had on your screen joins a multitude of other bullshit in the great bullshit collector of online brilliance. Everything can be restored if you’ve got the right computer knowledge and the willingness to do so.

I knew a guy he found out his girl was having somebody explore her grand canyons through an email that she had deleted from her inbox. He suspected something was up and had his buddy go through his computer and he pulled up that naughty little jumble of virtual words months after it had been sent. That was years ago, you don’t think the right computer brain could do something even more extravagant?

“Nobody would ever care that much to look up shit I did in highschool!” Sure about that? It probably won’t happen, cock nibbler, but hypothetically, let’s pretend one day you climb the ranks and make it to senator, or hell, even president. They run these little things called back-ground checks, and yes, they’re interested in the shit you did in highschool. It doesn’t even have to be a professional back-ground checker, it could just be somebody in need of cash that wants to make it fast. And all they gotta do is make a few clicks and couple clacks and boom, there’s that picture that you thought was so funny of you giving head to a bottle of booze. They hit print, blackmail you, destroy that career you spent so long climbing for and boom, all done like that, just cause you thought it was funny when you were eighteen and still hung over or a little bit high. And it’s all so easy too, it’s not like anybody hides it, they all put their real names up in the blink of an eye, without second thought, because they want everyone they ever looked at to be able find them so they can get that friend counter up.

Oh, look at Melissa rippin’ on that bong or chuggin’ away, that’s some really classy shit right there. And how old were you? 18? Well, my, my, my, isn’t that interesting? So it comes out you’re a habitual really fun party person, do you think they wanna hand somebody like that a prominent possession of power and esteem? For some reason, I don’t think so. And you don’t just have to be senator, with the internet being so easy to get into, they’re running that kinda shit for everybody: doctors, lawyers, big companies, you name it. But that’s invading my privacy! Nah-huh, little buddy, once it’s online, everything is free public game.

“But, nah, dude it’s cool. I don’t put shit like that of me up, just of my friends.” Here’s another heads up: if you post a picture of somebody online and they don’t want it there, their right to privacy has been violated by you and you can be sued over that. Man, so many ways to stuff your really awesome little life into the shitter all with one click! Isn’t it cool being that funny, popular kid?

All in all, I hope you’re parents are proud they raised such fine young individuals with such booming personalities and above average intelligence. If you were my faggot kids, I’d beat the hell out of you an’ grind a busted bottle (that’s probably covered in your cum - gotta keep it fresh for yo’ pics!) in your face.

Your over-tanned orange skin reeks of dipshit.

Sex addiction
n. pl - spontaneous humping.
1. Not to be confused with Erotomania or Nymphomania
2. A made-up term created by the male species which gives them full rights to hump everything with a hole while receiving no blame for doing so and/or knocking up sluts.

See: You’re a dumb bitch.

Earlier this morning I was talkin’ to this girl; but before we get into what that bunk ass conversation was about I have to lay some quick ground work down and throw it out there that this girl’s not unattractive, quite the contrary, she’s pretty goddamn attractive but with an ugly girl personality - good looking people seemingly feel no need to be polite, well-mannered or nice. Anyways, so here I am listening to this girl telling me about her so-so boyfriend of a several months, or days (I could care less), and all of a sudden she blurts out how he’s cheated on her. A cheater? Well this doesn’t bode well for this young dipshit. Pretending to lightly care I ask was it a one night deal or a few occasions type of thing and she responds “oh, it’s happened a few times.” And right about there was when I lost hope for anybody with a vagina.

After a few minutes of painful conversation where I tried my hardest to not die everywhere, since I’m allergic to retards, I get the low down scoop that he’s cheated on her a badass seven times, which is medal-worthy by male standards. “Seven times? Well, that’s not too bad.” No, not just seven in-and-out sessions, he’s creepin’ around with seven different girls - or maybe men, who cares? I know I don’t.

I’m all about people doing what they wanna do but c’mon, if you’re still gonna bump and grind with anything that shakes their tits (or dick) at you maybe you shouldn’t even bother being in a “committed relationship”, just a thought. The one thing that I couldn’t really understand though despite being really upset about all the failed monogamy spraying everywhere, as girls often are, but she was still with him - and not only was she still with him, they’re living together. “So, he gets his dick wet wherever and then goes home an’ jumps in bed with you?” “Well, kinda, but it’s not like that! He’s a sex addict.” My brains started leaking out of my ears at this point.

Okay, girls, since this whole “being okay with triflin” thing seems to be a growing trend, let me go aganist code and lay down some man-speak for you:

1. When a man tells you a number of girls he’s cheated on you with, that’s just the lowest number closet to the actual whore-count that he thinks you won’t cut his dick off over; the actual vag-count could be twice that, if not more.

2. Sex addiction is almost the same as saying you have an air addiction. If you accept the sex addiction card as a viable excuse, you might as well fall for the “what? She slipped and I caught her with my dick” defense. It’s the ultimate subterfuge. Every man alive who’s caught cheating has used/will use the sex addiction excuse with fingers crosses that his girl falls for it as it allows for quick and easy reconciliation and may even lead to being rewarded with more play time in your reproductive organs - plus the other muffs he’s chimney sweeping when you’re at work. I’ll never get over how gullible somebody’s gotta be to fall for this. Any man that’ ever greased his weasel is addicted to sex, you morons, certain dickswaggers can just control it - or can’t get away with telling his old lady he’s an “addict”. Wheither used for simply polying you onto your back or for general cheating, taking this one seriously makes you a bullshit-gobbling schmuck.

Let’s put it into an easy to understand translation for any dipshit still okay with their man doin’ other girls laundry: would you let somebody that’s addicted to sex get away with raping you? “Oh, no judge, it’s okay. He’s addicted, he can’t help it.” Somehow I don’t think so.

Accepting your man’s “sex addiction” is acknowledging the fact you’re insecure, whipped, and a legal dipshit. If you fall for this old trick, it instantly sends up shooting stars and fireworks: your dude’s won the pussy lottery. Combining his newly found oozing fortune along with your “it’s okay, baby, I understand”, your man and his pecker are bound to be two happy campers. By saying it’s okay and not leaving him after he’s gotten a taste for non-bitchy trim that doesn’t make him mow the lawn, you’ve given him a contract and the go ahead for further foreign-twat inspection and exploration, he just has to be sure you don’t find out. It’s like Obama telling BP to go ahead with off shore drilling, and we all know how that turned out. And remember girls, despite what you think, he can get away with it a hellova lot longer than you think. So when your boyfriend’s baby momma comes to your door and drops off 3-month-old Dickhead Junior, don’t act overly surprised, after-all, he is a sex addict.

You’re all such dipshits. I’m going to marry a robot.

Yesterday, or maybe a few days ago, I went to some fancy ass bullshit “International” mall. The only thing that was international about it was the gnarly collection of various and sundry types of trailer trash from all the hell around the surrounding area. After puking a couple times over the cheap tribal tattoos and the ass-less girls wearing tight motherfuckin’ pants I was able to puke over the outrageous prices on shit nobody needs.

What the hell is this? The bullshit express? I went in some “hip” bullshit I-wanna-look-like-a-surfer-but-still-look-baller store and my guts literally spewed out my ass. Everything about this store was bullshit: the fake beach house interior, the name brand painfully over-priced clothes and even the “trendy” employees to reinforce the stores cool, laid-back vibe. Eat my ass, you fucking cockchompers. They even had surf boards in the back, fucking surfboards, what the hell are you going to do with that? Carrying your board around the mall - that’s not pretentious or anything, you dick. I don’t think I saw a pair of swim trunks for under 50 bucks. This sales whore even tried to get me to buy a pair of 100 dollar water-proof swim trunks. Water-proof? Yea, they dry off in 3 minutes so you can put your mom’s credit card and the wallet she bought you right back in your pocket. What a load of horse shit. I saw multiple sunglasses for 160 bucks and up. If I spent that much on sunglasses, it better come with a free ball sucking - tip included.

After I picked my guts up, we went around going from store to store making fun of things loudly hoping to make dipshits realize how queer they were, or at least to make them feel like cunting idiots and give me their money instead. I hate people that whisper when they make fun of shit especially inanimate shit. Grow some fucking balls and if you got something to say, speak up, because me and my balls can’t hear you.

Luckily though, we saved the best store for last. Can you guess which fag factory topped off our douche-bag bonanza? I’ll give you a hint: it rhymes with I wish I could kill myself now. That’s right! Ed Hardy. The second I walked in that hell hole I was overwhelmed by a lethal mix of dipshitted douche-bag. I didn’t know where to look, everything was double dipped bullshit covered in vaginal slime: the employees reeked of cheap jackass, the clothes made me wanna curl up and die, even the mannequins looked like douche-bags from planet Jack-Off. And not only are the clothes tacky and puke worthy, they’re also hella expensive, appealing to the general douche-bag appeal of spending money they don’t have. I picked up a shirt that made me envy blind people in the sale section that was originally 160-some bucks down to 88 which got slashed again to 44 bucks. It warms my heart that douche-bags care so much for their other poorer douchy friends that can’t to afford bedazzled 160 dollar shirts because they’re credit cards are maxed out and their up to their chin strap beards in dept, it’s so cute and sweet of them to want them to have the same douching rights even though they can’t afford them.

But, all that bullshit aside, you gotta hand it to Ed Hardy, they made life alot easier for females. Because of this useless over-everything piece of shit brand it made it easy and completely fault-proof for chicks to pick out douche-bagging dicks from miles away. There’s even a scale: if you see a guy wearing an Ed Hardy shirt - be cautious and attempt to avoid; if you see a guy wearing an Ed Hardy hat and shirt - run; if you see a guy decked out head to foot in Ed Theregoesmyhardon - it’s too late, if you have any type of hole be it pussy or anus, this herpes harvester is going to try and get in it. They even have Ed Hardy towels so if you’re at the beach and can’t make out his Ed Hardy swim trunks clearly, seeing his giant Ed Hardy towel with the chintzy tiger sprawled across it will luckily give you enough time to slit your own wrist and kill your children.

You know what really pisses me off about all that bullshit? I can sum it up into a little threesome: the majority of people buying these clothes can’t actually afford them, they think the clothes they wear matter, and finally the fact it’s illegal for to stab people in the face. Look, when you have to blow your entire pay check on two pairs of pants, you can’t afford them. When you buy those over-priced half-assed quality clothes you, more than likely, think they complete your “image”, well here’s the low-down on that, twat chops, you have no image. You’re an ordinary faggot that’ll die in debt because you insisted on having the clothes, shoes and cars that you thought were an extension of you. There is no extension of you. You aren’t the shoes you have or the car you drive or whatever fucking brand your pants are. You’re a typical dipshit that fell for brilliant marketing. You are an idiot. An ordinary, run-of-the-mill cum stained rag that soaked up all the outstanding corporate jizz that made you ooze “individuality”.

Nice shirt, dipshit.

Simple: You ask stupid questions, you get stupid answers. You ask serious questions, you get serious answers. But don’t talk to me about how much your ass hurts because I fucked your shit way up your colon because I don’t give a goddamn stream of piss.

You’re all dipshits that take everything too seriously.

I have a “formspring” and some whiney little cuntin’ cockblocker got all serious and solemn up in that bitch today: “I need to be honest, I respected you before I read your formspring. Now im kind of sad and disappointed, im hoping its a defense mechanism of some sort.” Hahah, oh boo hoo, I didn’t meet the expectations you set for me. Oh nooo, I’ve offended you with my talk to ball sucking and cannibalism? I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry, I didn’t know they let over-sensitive clitoral Bible humpers and 12 year olds on the internet.

You know why that makes people dipshits? Because you stick your dick in a three dollar hole and were surprised when it came out with sores on it. I love it! “I can’t believe he was fucking her in the parking lot” well I got two quickies for you, Mother Theresa: 1. why did you get close enough to the car to find out? and 2. did you get wet or jizz when you saw them? Haha. Why subject yourself to something that makes you feel like somebody just gave you a boo boo? Because you’re a dipshit. Human characteristics are very silly. Curiosity killed the cat and all that bullshit, eh? Let me tell you about curiosity there, not only am I liable to peak it in you, I also have full legal rights to run over it with a steam roller. Stop bein’ a faggot, grab your balls instead of your boyfriends, and nut the fuck up.

Who gives a shit what you think of somebody? Unless you’ve got a gun pointed at somebody’s face, you’re opinion doesn’t really matter, but I can’t understand why people seem to care so much. It’s all a big circle of non-stop idiot action with a special whiny tantrum setting.

Today I realized how much I hate everybody.