If you have been with us for anything over a minute and a half, you already know I am the certified Queen of the Fuckboys. I have seen it, done it, known it, and wrote about every single slick ass antic these morons try to play.
Yet, they obviously can’t read, or these fuckboys would keep their distance from me.
Look, I know that you think you’re slick. You’re not, though, first, and second, on your best day you could not battle me in a game of wits. You brought a popsicle stick to a gun fight on that front. Fucking dummy.
As all of my readers know, I’m very funny about my space. As in, I like to have my fucking space. As in, you don’t belong in my fucking space. As in, there is no way in hell some man child without his own is going to be sitting with his feet on my coffee table eating my cheesy poofs.
And yet, time and time again, these dudes without a singular pot to piss in continue to approach me. Not only do they come with the same tired ass lines, but now they have even less of a resume than the ones a year or two before them. The last crop at least had jobs. This sect is “covid jobless” and still owe child support on 3 kids.
What in the everloving fuck would make you think I want that kind of drama in my life? That’s not how my life is set up. I don’t need your debt, your expenses, and your kids. Nor do I want them.
Look, I understand that I’m not 20. That does not mean I have ever or will ever settle. I know there are people like me out there, because I’m one of them. Not everyone has a handful of baby mothers, 50k in debt, and lives with their mother. I know, because I’m not one of them.
Fuckboys, do not approach me with your same dumb ass lines, like I cannot see through your tired ass game. I can. Listen, if I have to go back to naming and shaming, please understand that is fun for me. Get out of my DM’s, stop calling my homegirls, and leave me the fuck alone.
On my worst day, I’m still better than dating you.
Hallelujah, sister!