Scampers the kitty cat
I have this awful problem where when I randomly look at people who are otherwise blase, I can’t help but think what it’s like when they have sex. I irreparably revert to an image of them mid coitus. And it ain’t always pretty. Nor does it make it all that easy to walk down a crowded sidewalk.
Someone would make a fortune if they invented a breathalizer for cell phones. For not only is the danger of drunk dialing right at your fingertips with cell phone in hand at the bar, but so too is drunk texting. Ain’ no nigga like to wake up the next day with a Sent Items box full of effusive texts (guilty as charged).
If you had the power to know what other people were really thinking about you, would you really want to know?
