 You’re a slut by Your Birth Control, Fed up with Your Promiscuity
I'm not mad. I'm just disappointed. How could I be mad at you? You're so darn friendly — especially with those college boys! Gosh, just to take me, you had to get off your friendly back and close your friendly legs for the first time in the last six friendliest months of your life... hussy.
Did I say that out loud? Whoopsie. I'm just a teensy bit bitter. You see, you never bothered to get to know me, even though I (and innumerable, slobbering men) have gotten to know you extremely well. I guess you're far too "busy" to learn what makes our relationship effective, like taking me at the same time every day. And it wouldn't hurt to look into the amazing advancement in contraception know as the "latex condom."
Remind me: what are the praiseworthy activities that occupy your spare time? Studying? No, that's not it. Raising money for tsunami victims? Nope. Not quite. Could it be... screwing complete strangers in a lonely, drunken haze? Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner. Someone give this girl a second hymen!
I'm sorry. That was rude. Let's forgive and forget, okay? Just like you'll have to forgive and forget Bill Insert-Last-Name-Here for giving you genital warts last weekend. (Though, in Bill's case, it's more like forgive but never forget.) That night of sloppy, half-masted thrusting of sweaty bellies, cheap beer and body odor left your goods permanently damaged.
Hey, now. It's okay. Don't cry. We all make idiotic mistakes that scar and rot our genitals and leave us to die. Alone.
Wait a minute — I just remembered something! You don't have to die alone after all. Turn that frown upside down: thanks to your haphazard use of me, you're now officially pregnant! Congratulations!
Slut. |
