Canned applause

“I don’t talk to guys”, she said. “It feels awkward, because you’re the only guy I talk to”, she said. “It feels wrong that I follow guys”, she said. Dude, it’s Twitter. What’s wrong is the things you say there. You treat it like a virtual stripper’s pole. And besides, you’re the one who gave me your number. I just did you a service by staying quiet about it. Although, I only told my mother about you. After all, mum’s the word. I must admit though, that last excuse really took the cake. You get to a point where you think you’ve heard it all, and then you’re slipped with a last-minute cue card. It’s the proverbial cherry on top. If Hollywood ever needed backup writers, they should hire an Arabic girl. Honestly, any of them would do. They just spew out line after line. I mean, seriously, how do they come up with this stuff? It’s like they’re genetically predisposed to be hypocritical liars. Stick-thin femmes whose hips don’t lie. Don’t they know that the more they try to preserve their so-called prestige, the more they look like whores? My theory is mathematically proven; the amount of makeup they wear is directly proportional to the amount of lies they wish to believe. Oh, and they can act, too! They don’t need to rehearse, doing it more for their self-conscious than anyone else. Time and time again, a man’s kindness is mistaken for weakness. Women need to learn that the hand which holds the door open for them can also slam it shut in their face. It’s not like another nose job would do them any harm.