How to Turn All Your Essays into Feminist Rants No Matter the Subject Matter: An Autobiography by Me.
My life.
I love my friends and all, and I’m glad they feel comfortable in my home and coming to me with their problems and asking me for what they need, but if they would just learn that I’m much less of a bitch when I’m not getting cockblocked every waking moment of every fucking day by one of their dumbasses showing up uninvited and demanding my attention, I wouldn’t be so mean all the damn time.
A bitch needs some alone time, but most importantly a bitch needs some of that good good loving that not a one of her sassy gay friends can provide. Damn. Do I have to spell it out. I’m tryna get my hair pulled, nigga, go home.
There is a small window of opportunity for me to get it in with my boyfriend and I’m tired of niggas pulling shade on that window every damn day.
I said it. I meant it. Bite me.
I hate when one of my clients lets someone else do their hair and they fuck it up and then they come back to me to get it fixed…
But i really hate when they have no pictures of the hair or make up I’ve been doing for them for 2 years but the one time someone ruins her hair, she does a photoshoot & makes that her profile pic… and then makes a post about how im tbe best hairdresser and tags me in it.
Simmer down girl, i don’t want my name associated with that dye job… ever.
Grrrrrrll
When your coochy is so tight your boyfriend is convinced that he finally put it in your b-hole… lawddd, thats an argument i never expected to have.
so yeah did you guys hear about the ceo of abercrombie and fitch who said that he doesn’t want ugly chicks wearing his clothing
like excuse you ceo of abercrombie and fitch
you look like gary busey went bobbing for apples in a tub of bees
you couldn’t wear your own clothing
You sit at the restaurant with your young son, he says he is hungry. You agree to get him dinner. You open up to the kids menu, your child is far to young for adult food. Chicken nugger stares at you from the page. You don’t understand. Your palms get sweaty and your son complains. He says he is hungry. Your mind strains, searching for an answer in a world of sweer potato and french fried. You try to order the chicken nugger, but you cannot. The words cannot escape your lips. Your son is hungry, he complains. The waitress stares at you, her head a spinning chicken nugger, her arms swinging french fried. Your son cries the tears of a chicken nugger-less child. In your mind you scream. It is raining sweer potato now, you have french fried engraved on your left temple and you do not understand. Your son weeps in the corner, he is starving. Starving for the chicken nugger.
