Dear possible men that may enter my life,
Welcome. Please keep arms and legs inside the car at all times during the ride. You may notice that I’m a little different then your average woman. You may find yourself suffering from whiplash once you exit the rollercoaster. Sadly, I won’t be getting off. You’re welcome to continue riding at your own risk.
My thoughts are ran by the Tasmanian Devil, and he can be a little scary but also very flattering at the same time. I don’t think that you should be afraid, he won’t hurt you if I say no.
Sometimes when I read, I read out loud in a British accent because it makes me feel classy. I want to feel classy. I’m not classy.
I like jokes that no one thinks are funny. I also take these horrid jokes too far so people stop listening. I also tend to pick at your ego until it bleeds. I don’t mean to, but remember that I really enjoy those awful jokes. I promise though that way deep down I feel awful about it.
And because of my (you could call) craziness, I tend to take liking way too far.
Hey, at least I get my point across. Cause honestly, what is this friend zone bullshit? If I like you, than we’re already friends. Why does it have to be a zone? Why do we have to be stuck there?
Like, what do I have to do? Cut off the fat from my chaffing thighs? Curl my lashes? Remember to pluck my brows? Nah, fuck that. I mean, I could do the thigh thing as chaffing hurts like a bitch. But I wouldn’t be cooling the fire for you. Do I need to stop being myself? Before digging into me and my body, you take a stab at yourself.
Do I have a “You can look, but do not touch” sign on my back? Oh, I don’t? Then why are you so afraid of me?
“Don’t forget, I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.”