I love when Fuckboys try to convince me that they aren’t a Fuckboy.
“Nah, I’m not a Fuckboy, I just have Fuckboy tendencies”.
“Nah, I’m not a Fuckboy, I used to be a Fuckboy, not now”.
“Nah, I’m not a Fuckboy, my baby mama bought these Jordans for me”.
Blah, blah, blah, blah, fucking blah.
Sir, you are, indeed, a Fuckboy, and if we’re being honest, you are one of the worst I’ve seen in all of my years diagnosing you dickheads. Like, if we were talking in clinical terms, you’ve got stage 4 Fuckboy. If we were talking legal jargon, you’re an A Felony Fuckboy. If we were talking numbers, you’re the 3.14159 of Fuckboys.
That’s my official ruling on the situation. Please don’t make me blow my fucking whistle, sir. You’ll be ejected so fast. Test me.
My favorite, though, is when I have actually sat down and wrote this very column about what a Fuckboy you are, and you have the nerve to try to worm your way back into my life.
“No, no thank you. I’m actually all good here. I stored some of the lying, cheating sacks of shit for emergency purposes. Right there, next to the beets.
Did you check with the neighbors? I heard they were looking for some worthless trash with good dick and nice shoes earlier. Yeah, just go right over, ring the bell. Maybe they could figure out what you’re good for. “
I literally sent you a link to the column. What about that says I want anything to do with you? The only thing worse than an Axe body spray fresh Fuckboy is a recycled Fuckboy.
That’s disgusting. Ew, God no, I don’t want that. Leave it out on the curb, see if the County will pick that shit up.
If I didn’t want you the first time around, you are just making yourself look like a dummy sending me stupid ass messages with stupid ass excuses for your stupid ass piddly nonsense.
Knock it off. Don’t make me roll up a magazine. And for God’s sake, get the fuck off my leg.
I assure you, sir, if you were a Fuckboy at any time in the duration of our acquaintanceship, I knew it then, and I remember it now. I do not want you then or now, I do not want you near a cow. I do not want you on a train, I do not want you in the rain. Really. Even Seuss can’t break it down to a simpler set of nopes.
I don’t care to debate it with you. Consider my ruling final sir, and that will stand, considering, I am the Queen of the Fuckboys. Just go smite yourself, I’m really tired, and my feet hurt.
Please, don’t drag your dirty ass across the Queendom again. Someone has to clean all of this *waves well-manicured hand in the direction of all this*.
Fuck. Let me get my steam mop. I can’t rest with this place looking like this.
The more help the better….. I figured I’d they sent out a young priest and an old priest in the Exorcist, so it seemed logical. The witch doctor was just to cover every possible base, lol. 💜
*standing ovation*
This could be like that phone number you give people when you want to get out of an awkward conversation. Whenever I meet a fuckboy I'll just be like yeah, here's my website.