I Can't Explain My Level Of Sad...

Someone hand me my fuzzy blanket and Peter Thomas Roth.

What the fuck is this?

Bitchfaces, you all know of my love for Stitches. That dude could make me laugh no matter how bad the outlook happened to be.

And then today brought this news.

Mother of Christ. I’m so fucking disappointed. Next level hurt.

I simply can’t understand. How do you go from talking about putting cocaine in Miley Cyrus’ ass to being a Trump bootlicker?

How?

Stitches, you got some fucking ‘splaining to do.

You know what? At this point, I’m glad The Games homie knocked you the fuck out. I wish he would come back around and do it again, actually.

Where in the fuck is The Game and his chainsaw when we need him?

I understand you had some growing up to do. Everyone does that. But this is what you turned into? This is what you have become?

No fucking reasonable person can support a rapist and molester. You fucking have children. That makes this doubly disgusting.

Now you’re posted up with some Trump ballgarglers and calling yourself from the fucking swamp.

Boy, please. You don’t even deserve to fish for your bricks there, I hope a gator takes your first, third, and fourth digits.

Put this fucking brick in your face. Pansy ass.

Ugh.

I’m just going to apply this Peter Thomas Roth and pretend I haven’t been blotting my eyes. If I pass you somewhere in the swamp, rest assured, I don’t see you.

You make me sick.

Ugh.

-Q