Hey, Ms. Flibberti-I’m-like-a-lot-of-other-chicks-but-mostly-I’m-just-ME-gibbit!. 

 Yeeaaahhh.

Ahm, darlin’,  I like to have a word wit youse, just in private and between youse ‘n’ I.

You don’t gets to bitch, moan, whine, whimper, weep and lash out about how terrible your romantic life is and then, all’a’once tells us that you have had a dozen dates in 12 weeks with cuddly, soul soothers, tall dark and handsomes and cute daddies.

Get it?

Irony is NOT fuckin’ dead.  It’s alive and well in the blogosphere.

You know how many women would give their mastectomies to have your dating prowess?

PLUS you gots girlfriends to roast the beefcake over wineglasses?

Sheeeeiiiittt, girlfriend.

and, besides that, you out ogling them pro athlete men butts.

G!

Get a grip!

You be fine and gots no place to stand and bitch.

From the perspective of those of us who have records of chastity rivaling monasteries and convents, seems like as long as you forget to tell ‘em “yo, dude, I like you”, your life will look  like you hang with Paris Hilton (don’t forget your panties when the photogs are watching you get out of the Hummer2, K?).  ‘Sides, what you worry?  Let ‘em slink away with the deep bench you playin’.

WTF, Girl.

Sheesh.

Blogblah!!!