F*ck Virginia. (The Chick From That Train Song)

The chick sucks. She sucks a real, big fat one.

She doesn’t own a dress
Her hair is always a mess, 
You catch her stealin’ she won’t confess
She’s Beautiful.

Fuck you Ginny. Get your God damn life together. So you don’t own a dress. Cool. Sups cool. Are they too feminine for you? Do you prefer pants? Shorts? Capris? Mother fucking tearaways? That’s fine. I’m not a girly girl either. But let’s be logical. What the fuck do you do when it’s 100+ degrees outside and you have to go work? Wear God damn pants? It’s simply illogical. You’re making yourself uncomfortable because you refuse to pick up a $7 T-shirt dress at Old Navy, you little shit. Do yourself a favor. Let the wind float through your underparts like God intended instead of trapping heat into your calves and thighs like a fucking psycho.

So your hair’s messy. Whatever, it’s long. I get it. But you steal. And then you lie about STEALING. Are you fucking kidding me? Are you kidding me, Ginny. It’s not a funny joke. Stop fucking laughing. Stop. That’s fucked up. Super fucked up. That’s two commandments broken in one lyric. Did your parents tell you that Bold Face Lying is ok? Did you get rewarded for doing so when you were a lass? Did you get reverse time outs where when you did something bad you got a mother fucking homemade chocolate chip cookie? You’re a wreck of a human. Do you also get caught masturbating on your roommate’s couch and then, when she asks you if you’re masturbating on her couch, while you’re masturbating on your couch, you DENY IT? Christ.

She never compromises,
Loves babies and surprises,
Wears high heels when she exercises

Pretty fucked up that you never compromise, Ginny. Prettyyyy, prettttyyy fucked up. Cause that means, if we were hanging out and wanted to order some za, you’d make me eat whatever the fuck it is you wanted to eat. Which is selfish as all hell. Especially since we just spent the whole night at a douchey bar in River North filled of trash people cause it was “your turn to pick,” even though it was “your turn to pick” the last five times. How is it that every time you pick a place, I get sexually assaulted? And do NOT give me the, “He was just joking!” bullshit. Do not even attempt to utter it, G. THEN, when we would finally stumble into your tiny ass studio apartment, I’d suggest ordering Domino’s because you can customize each half cause the people that work at Domino’s fucking gets it and you would DENY me. You’d spit in my face, stomp on my toes and say “NO. OWNLEE cheese on the entire pie.” Which blows ass in and of itself. And yes I spelled “only” like that cause you over pronounce everything and it pisses me off. Bitch.

MOVING ON. Loving babies and surprises straight up means you poke holes in condoms. I can’t possibly think of another explanation for putting these two passions of yours into the same sentence. Unless you’re just really amped on the idea of surprise baby showers, but for someone who can’t compromise on dick, is a compulsive clepto, and a pathological liar, I have a hard time understanding the logic that would bring you to the possibility of a surprise baby shower in the first place. I’m saying no one likes you enough to fuck you.

And Christ All Mighty. Who in their right God Damn mind decides to strap on a set of stilettos and climb up on an elliptical? I’m sorry, I don’t know why I choose such a normal machine, you probably climb aboard the StairMaster in your black latex PANTS and neon green strappy sports bra while you smoke a pack of cigs. Oh wait, that’s me. But anyways.

I know you do whatever the fuck it is you want and don’t listen to anyone else cause your heads too far up your own ass to even attempt to do so, but for Pete’s sake, do you understand what you’re doing to your arches? DO YOU. Let me do a SIMPLE GOOGLE SEARCH for your lazy and irresponsible ass.

“High heels put the foot at an angle and pull muscles and joints out of alignment,” Dr. Surve of http://www.osteopathic.org/ explained. “It’s not unusual for people who spend lots of time in high heels to have low back, neck and shoulder pain because the shoes disrupt the natural form of the body.”

I know you probably DGAF cause you’re Virginia or whatever, but Jesus woman. Listen to Dr. Surve. He clearly knows what the fuck he’s talking about. His name is basically Dr. Suave so you should probably unplug your hot pink, rhinestone studded headphones and listen to the man.

Whatever, this probably goes back to your inability to compromise on comfortable footwear or some shit.

Well she wants to be the Queen
Then she thinks about her scene
Pulls her hair back as she screams
“I don’t really wanna be the Queen”

Your indecisiveness is fucking nauseating. You’re worst than that one kid I babysat for that one time who couldn’t make up his mind if he wanted chocolate milk or a Yoohoo. Little fucking turd. Always touched my boobs too. Turdy-Perv. Should’ve told his mom I called him that. I digress. Do you want to be the Queen or not? Stop pulling back your messy as fuck hair, it’s very unattractive. If you put a comb through your mane every once in awhile, maybe it’d be kinda cute? Or maybe hot? But you don’t so neither of those attractive adjectives pertain to this particular situation. You dumb fuck. Don’t fucking tell me you don’t know what an adjective is, we’ve been over this. Also stop screaming, you’re not Sofia Vergara trying to explain to America what Pepsi is.

Daddy wrestles alligators
Mama works on carburetors
Her brother is a fine mediator, for the President
And here she is again on the phone
Just like me hates to be alone
We just like to sit at home and rip on the President
Meet Virginia, Mmmm…

No fucking clue how your brother weaseled his way out of not being a fuck up with your two whack jobs as parents, but kudos to him. A mediator? To the PRESIDENT? God damn. Color me impressed. I bet he wears a suit all day. I bet he looks fucking great in a suit. I also would put money on the fact he wears gym shoes to the gym (unlike someone) because he obviously goes to the gym because look. at. those. muscles. Is he single? Looking? How tall is he? Gotta love a hardworking man with smarts and a good sense of humor. I’m just assuming he’s the opposite of you. Starting to understand why you’re a walking disaster. But one of you has to be, right?

BACK TO RUINING YOUR DAY. Being alone is awesome, you co-dependent nutso. You get to watch whatever the fuck you want on the TV, in your undies, and eat as many Pringles as you want away from wandering and judgement-filled eyes. You get to watch hilarious comedies without having to crack a smile. You just watch the funny thing and stare at the screen and think to yourself, “That was funny.” Or you watch sad as fuck flicks and bawl your eyes out and wipe your nose on your dirty ass couch cushions that already have flecks of your After Dinner Pringles in it. Good God All Mighty, Virginia you’re missing out on all the good shit. You probably don’t want to do any of that shit anyways cause that’s what most people like, and “you’re not most people.” Whatever. Liking things just cause no one else does is literally a garbage way of life reserved for scum of the earth people. Hope you hate it down there.

[Side thought: Please stop ripping on the President because we all know that you’re just projecting the jealousy you have of your brother onto a man who worked really hard to get to where he was and has a very stressful job and he doesn’t deserve your negative attitude.]

Well she wants to live her life
Then she thinks about her life
Pulls her hair back, as she screams
“I don’t really wanna live this life”

Yea, well. You kinda royally fucked yourself on that one. Dumb dumb.

She only drinks coffee at midnight
When the moment is not right 
Her timing is quite, unusual
You see her confidence is tragic, but her
Intuition magic And the shape of her body? Unusual

Can you not. Can you not pound a venti, half-whole milk, one quarter 1%, one quarter non-fat, extra hot, split quad shots (1 1/2 shots decaf, 2 1/2 shots regular), no foam latte, with whip, 2 packets of splenda, 1 sugar in the raw, a touch of vanilla syrup and 3 short sprinkles of cinnamon at MIDNIGHT. WHAT KIND OF HUMAN ARE YOU. GO TO FUCKING SLEEP. Shit, I’ll read you Goodnight Moon if I have to. But I’m not rubbing your back which is probably deformed from wearing heels to the gym cause I have standards. God you’re fucking worst. I should get a tattoo of the words “Street Rat” on my wrist (cause that’s where all the good tats are) to remind myself of how much of a dirty ass nobody you are and that I don’t deserve to associate myself with a person who genuinely believes caffeine is a better idea than some good ole REM. Remember this: You were born a street rat. You will die a street rat, and not even your fleas will mourn you. (That’s 100% original, I just made that up.)

P.S. Your boy toy just called your body shape Unusual. Come on, Virginia. You’re fucking better than that.