and cool your jets. because this is certainly not an ode to loving shitler because i'm not, nor will i ever be the type of girl that thinks her husband/finance/boyfriend/whatever farts sparkles and rainbows because that guy farts and it's nasty-town, usa; population: shitler.
|as you can see he's bringing me both my bra and beers.|
|just a couple of kids regretting that whole college thing.|
|i do like to think we can have an ok time together.|
i could sit and listen/live vicariously through everyone else's single life for the rest of my natural life but there is no way in hell that i actually want it for myself. i imagine that with dating comes the need to shower on a regular basis and/or give a flying fuck; neither of which i can be bothered with. and i honestly cannot fathom having to consistently talk to new people or date new people. it could be my inherent laziness shining through but i am, and always will be, a creature of habit. i want my couch and my shitler (and sometimes i don't even want shitler).
|i mean could time is the best time. and so is hand down the pants time?|
they're stuck with you
those terribly disgusting sweat pants you can't bear to part with and wear constantly? ya - they have to suffer through being around them. your whining on a regular basis? welcome to the thunder dome bitch.
my bullshit? well - now it's your bullshit.
|i mean - you'd date us, right?|