—I think you’re slightly embarrassing.
It’s the way you accentuate every syllable of every word until it is a sing-song, a tone so cheerful, only Hairspray would dare try it.
It’s the way you take over every conversation, and usually you have nothing new to mention or contribute.
It’s the way you snort when you laugh.
It’s the way your eyes waver to my tits whenever I decide to speak to you.
It’s the way you mock me when I laugh, after knocking your ass in Smash Bros.
“Don’t mock me, bitch” I said.
And you decided to pretty much only go after me, during the next several rounds.
Half of which, you lost, by the way. To me.
I don’t care that you write like me, play the same games as me, work your ass off like me. You show off, and you brag, and I have never thought twice about you, except for this moment, telling you off in my brain. It’s not because you beat me. Frankie did a couple times, too, and I congratulated him sincerely.
You, on the other hand, fist-pump, and holler, and act as though you have saved us from a terrible earthquake. You have a theater background, and its cliched mannerisms come out more and more as the night progresses, much to my chagrin.
You’re loud. You’re not very funny. Stare at my boobs all you damn well want. It’s not like you’re going to be getting anywhere else.
