I understand this goes against my general “do unto others” philosophy — I would NOT want this done to me. I feel bad about it, it’s a dick move, and makes me a GIANT asshole.
We all on board? Excellent, ’cause I’m posting this screenshot of an OkCupid message, anyway. There’s too much majesty in it to be confined by a mere retelling. You must behold the glory in its entirety.
Identifying information has been deleted/changed to protect the overly cheerful at 8:goddamn-13 in the morning.
Damn, that’s a lot of emojis when you’re 52. (Or any age, really. But 52 for sure.)
P.S. My profile mentions Carlin’s seven dirty words, but just generally, gentlemen — pro tip? Never lead with farts. I’m still a lady, fuckface.
It’s adorable how you think the silent treatment will bother me when all I ever wanted in the first place was for you to shut up and let me think. The fact that it doesn’t bother me probably indicates that I shouldn’t be talking to you — normally it drives me batshit insane when people I care about won’t talk to me.
I’m done thinking, but admittedly curious how long he’d let this ride.
(I know, I’m an asshole. I won’t actually wait.)
The other day I got high-fived for figuring out (in 2 minutes) how to turn on a man’s TV and sound system without assistance, despite the warning: “It’s really complicated, my parents and ex both needed me to do it for them.”
1. Fuck you.
2. What kinda dumbass triflin’ bitches have been up in here trying to operate your shit? They’re power buttons, not a goddamn space shuttle.
3. I lived with a nerd (term of endearment) for years — I dabble in your language, dickweed (NOT a term of endearment).
Something about the whole exchange felt condescending, like you’re impressed that a mere woman can figure out how to handle three big, manly remote controls. Ease back, Freud — I got this.
Or I’m just a bitch.