no, not jesus.
so i have a crush.
and it's on this little dipshit. a teeny-tiny wisp of a man. i could crack his rib with my earlobes. jeez, i don't even wanna know how i would annihilate him if he ever got between my knees. but nonetheless, as dainty as he is, there's something about him and his shallow, materialistic ass.
he's got some godawful gold jewelry, which i didn't know people even wore anymore. and this massive gleaming truck that he has to polevault into. mister pissant probably needs a booster seat.
he's into silk pajamas. and lotions. and smoking doobies in his mom's garage, sitting on cold plastic patio furniture. he drinks cherry wheat, just so he can have the cherries, "preferably three." and does he flame, you ask. like no other. and by that, i mean in his own, subtle way.
he's not a lisper. not a wrist-dangler. not an eye-liner. not even a man-whore. he's just delicate, like a porcelain, faberge baby... who happens to be a bitch and wear colored contacts to make his eyes easter-egg blue.
what is it about this fucker? he does that whole "what are you thinking now?" like that's any sort of question. i don't play that game. i don't do hypotheticals. i don't even like people. and yet here he is, all conniving and ridiculous, probably a republican, could fit in the palm-of-my-hand or the crotch-of-my-elbow, doused in cologne, wearing clothes from the mall. and he just has to smile. and i melt.
and it's on this little dipshit. a teeny-tiny wisp of a man. i could crack his rib with my earlobes. jeez, i don't even wanna know how i would annihilate him if he ever got between my knees. but nonetheless, as dainty as he is, there's something about him and his shallow, materialistic ass.
he's got some godawful gold jewelry, which i didn't know people even wore anymore. and this massive gleaming truck that he has to polevault into. mister pissant probably needs a booster seat.
he's into silk pajamas. and lotions. and smoking doobies in his mom's garage, sitting on cold plastic patio furniture. he drinks cherry wheat, just so he can have the cherries, "preferably three." and does he flame, you ask. like no other. and by that, i mean in his own, subtle way.
he's not a lisper. not a wrist-dangler. not an eye-liner. not even a man-whore. he's just delicate, like a porcelain, faberge baby... who happens to be a bitch and wear colored contacts to make his eyes easter-egg blue.
what is it about this fucker? he does that whole "what are you thinking now?" like that's any sort of question. i don't play that game. i don't do hypotheticals. i don't even like people. and yet here he is, all conniving and ridiculous, probably a republican, could fit in the palm-of-my-hand or the crotch-of-my-elbow, doused in cologne, wearing clothes from the mall. and he just has to smile. and i melt.
posted by paultoes at 6:56 AM
8 Comments:
I thought you were refering to me for a moment, but then, my colored contacts are green.
"my eyes are green
cuz i eat alotta vegetables,
it don't have nothing
to do with your new friend..."
that's what you made me think of.
Should I know what that's a reference to? Cause I don't.
maybe you shouldn't. maybe you're just not ready yet.
I sure did get ready quickly since you played that song for me later that night.
what a coincidence, eh? yes, scott.. now you are truly ready, my son.
Damn. I can see this guy, and it's funny, but not especially pretty. Crush him anyway - branch out a little.
you said "wisp of a man". That makes me laugh. wisp..hehehe. HEY! Maybe he can get your nipples hard! yeah? keep crushin' stud.
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