You’re a bad bitch. Goddamn. I’m talking Michael Jackson bad, here. I’m talking like you should release like seven singles from your album, you’re that bad. The Way You Make Me Feel? Too bad. You’re way too bad to be held down by some punk boyfriend or girlfriend. Run free, baddest of bitches. Run free.
You got: You’re too perfect.
Simple Plan ain’t got nothing on you. Smashing Pumpkins? Nothing. Bet you don’t even know that song. Doesn’t even matter. You’re like a sculpture by Leonardo Divinci. masterfully put together and often naked. You’re too good for anyone, anyway.
You got: You’re too attractive.
Consider traveling to another planet because no one on earth can compare to the ulitmate sexified being that you are. That’s OK because you are above these bogus earthlings anyway. They are dumb and their skin isn’t silky smoothe like yours. You have the upper hand. You might even have three upper hands, I don’t know, I’m not gonna judge.
Broken hearted? Maybe you’ll like something over here instead?
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