Happy Valentine's Day, Bitch.
(stolen from AoSHQ
I'm hungry, bitch. Waddle your filthy, filthy vagina into the kitchen and make me a sandwich dammit. NOW!
What...you think that because you have hair that is long, and soft, and smells like lavender, and is my favorite shade of black/brown/chestnut brown/blonde/strawberry blonde/red/auburn/gray that you don't have to cook anymore? Just because it hangs down to your incredibly fit ass/super tight abs/feminine and graceful shoulders? Get over yourself, slut.
Didn't you hear me? I'm still hungry. And all this talking is making me thirsty too. So how about grabbing me a beer while you are up? That really isn't a question, dumbass.
I just don't get you. Sure you have beautiful eyes that are my favorite shade of blue/green/brown and I get weak in the knees when you smile/laugh at me. And the sound of your voice and the touch of your silky soft skin against my cheek makes me tremble with the nervous anticipation of two lovers embraced for the first time. But you are still little more than a dirty, dirty whore. Bitch.
And your breasts are my favorite size a/b/c/d/dd and are perky and/or firm as melons. But does that mean I should buy you a fucking house? Geez...and to think you pitch a fit when all I ask for is a freakin' sandwich. Psycho.
So you have long legs that could wrap themselves around me three or four times. For this I should forget that you also possess a gaping wound that bleeds but never freaking heals? You disgust me.
Can you put a little more mustard on that? I swear, are you competent to do anything right?
And while it's true that you are my soulmate/private dancer/best friend/love of my life, and that I couldn't make it thru this cruel world without your quiet strength and your love, as long as I have one dollar bills and live near the Crystal City Strip Club I can get all the emotional support I need. So don't go thinking you bring anything unique to the table, sister.
Unless it's my fucking sandwich. It would be awfully fucking unique if you brought THAT to the table. Hussy.
So tomorrow, when I'm remembering how lucky I am to have you and softly weeping as I gaze at the first light of dawn falling upon your perfect face as you sleep, just remember that as much as you think I am shedding tears for you, all I really want is my fucking sandwich! Capiche?
Now get in the kitchen before I have to remind you who wears the nicely ironed/perfectly pressed/color coordinated pants that you picked out for me in this relationship. Can I get an ETA on the damn sandwich yet?
Because tomorrow is your day. I will love you/celebrate you/cherish you/place rose petals at your feet/plan romantic surprises all in your honor.
But right now? It's just February fucking 13th. And all I want to hear out of you is "Your sandwich is ready, dear."
For crying out loud, you sicken me. I despise you. I love you.
Thanks for the sandwich, by the way. But you forgot the fuckin' beer! Now get back in there and do it again until you get it right.
Fuckin' women. And to think we let them drive/vote/bear our children.
If I didn't need ya, I'd say "who needs them"?