Okay! So, last night I was talking to my boy Rob and he's a bit under the weather since this one broad broke up with him, yet keeps on rearing her schizophrenic head(s) like goddamn Tiamat. Clearly, 'twould not be completely out of sorts for dearheart Rob to be twisted into an emotional funnel cake. Ever empathetic to the sorrow of the homies, and through the lens of several glasses of six-dollar chardonnay, I woke up this morning and realized I had emailed him an extremely impromptu (and slightly inebriated) take I apparently had on the whole situation. Get your black mock turtleneck, peg your pants and grab your Zodiacs, because it's time to get your high-school angst-ridden poetry on...
A later note: I edited it down to the best line from said bad poem, since in retrospect, no one really needs to read all that shit.
You can make bullshit sound like rimming an angel’s perineum
So fuck you, Primadonna
I hope Rob is feeling better these days.
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