I apologize for all the testosterone.
I’m sorry I glared at your boyfriend and shot him several times in the face with my Painball gun at the Mt. Henna affiliate retreat.
I special ordered the guns on Alibaba. They really do call them Painball. Lmfao! I didn’t tell you goofballs this, but those toys aren’t really toys. Rural dwelling Chinese use them to hunt injured deer. I actually originally thought it’s because Asians don’t speak English right, but nope. Painball actually causes severe trauma if its gooey ammo hits you on any part of your body.
I’m sorry my neck veins showed when Rick from Sales was talking to you in the break room. Even though it was clearly lunchtime, he insisted on discussing the quarterly report with you as I drank my protein shake in the vicinity. Minding my own business. That drives me nuts. I’m sure it does other people too, but they never speak up or exhibit their neck veins because they are deficient in testosterone or are just plain retarded. Do you want to hear cricket rules at a Red Sox game? I know I don’t.
I’m sorry I towed your boyfriend’s Honda across the parking lot at Harriet’s going away bash..with my Honda’s rear bumper. Just like you, Harriet possesses ZERO testosterone by default. Blame Mother Nature. I’m pretty sure she requested a transfer to Cleveland because she knows I hate her. She can’t prove I used some of my testosterone indirectly around her because we don’t have that kind of technology yet. I’ll probably have to murder whoever invents it.
I’m sorry your boyfriend has as much testosterone as I do and I had to staple his temple when he forcefully bumped into me after I painballed him multiple times with deadly accuracy causing painful ghastly welts to sprout up all over his face. As if it wasn’t hideous enough to begin with. See, I had gotten a scope installed on my ‘toy’ and spent the whole afternoon destroying my quarry from behind a defunct giant termite mound in the distance.
Yes, it’s weird that I bring my stapler to the biennial interdepartmental shootout. That’s not why I’m writing this ode. I’m writing to say that I love you. Very much so. And when I get out, I wish to marry you. Did I say ode? I meant proposal. Please don’t have your boyfriend around when I do get out, he riles something inside me that I can’t quite put my finger on.
