These dinner time conversations grow old with reused issues of the next newest idea for a tattoo. I predict the inevitable, the questionable stares our table likes to give to the unfit, the slut, the girl with the gut. So what the fuck? I’m betting this is the first time you’ve had to try and grow up, to get the idea to get over yourself. I’m so over this image you like people to see on the outside, while you’re torn between bitch and small town hick inside. So god forbid these girls with the straightened hair get the glare for dressing so bare. What a ho, oh boy.. I hate that. You’re an annorexic mess in that thing you swear is a dress, talking shit when the backs are turned, and turning around with such a smile on your face. I’ve had my time, I’ve repeated my lines just this last time I’ll say I already got someone to call mine. I’m sick of this fake plastic world with all these girls trying to be something that their not, trying to act so hot trying to act like they got something I want.