My love doesn’t say, “I liked that song you sent me”. She says, “I swear it took my soul, teared it into pieces and then gave it back. I’m still in the process of verifying if it stole any of the pieces for good. Also that logo. I ovulated and died at the same time. My poor poor heart.”
My love doesn’t say, “I’m just hanging around this afternoon”. She says, “I managed to put myself into a truly lugubrious mood by inadvertently listening to Saint Saens’ dance macabre while looking at Picpus Cemetery pictures.”
My love doesn’t say, “Those picture of you were sexy”. She says, “I ovulated so many times, that I could get pregnant with a record amount of babies.”
My love doesn’t say, “I really shouldn’t be so turned on by the idea of chastity”. She says, “My pussy is the organic equivalent of a handless watch. It’s somewhat pretty, but its smartness level is not through the roof.”
My love doesn’t say, “I don’t feel bratty”. She says, “I’m feeling so dissless right now.”
My love sometimes says things are “mucopalpable.” I’m not sure what that means.
My love doesn’t say, “The way Dan Harmon writes is hot”. She says, “That guy is the elemental of toxicity.”
When I tell my love that you can’t just start using your own meanings for words, like “toxic” to mean alluring, dangerous, and addictive, she says “Vectorial semantics means they’ll figure it out, as long as we don’t change all the words at the same time.”
And that is why she’s my love.
Also
dat ass.
@khatsha
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