|Who ruined my fucking cake?|
|Morning Pumpkin Cuddle Tiger|
This isn’t just annoying to your friends but even worse to your self esteem and image, which will take a bigger fall, post-relationship, than Enron's stock in 2004. So as you begin to believe every little pet name which falls from their lips, eventually you’ll be walking around on all fours or turning a light shade of honey or actually picking up after yourself.
|Pictured: A man in a 3 year relationship|
But other than pet names one can find that being alone you start making up shit because you’re bored and you have to reimpress your friends who have also affectionately started calling you Tiger, much like referring to kitten who’s just learnt how to lick it’s own paws again.
|Pictured: You, a week, post-relationship|
So to try and rebrand yourself you start to come up with new nicknames and anything to shift yourself away from being considered a rolly polly little tiger. However, tigers are pretty bad ass and you try and come up with the name of a more badass animal so you try and think of like a shark, but you want to be a bit humble so then you’re like yeah, I’ll call myself a baby shark. And then you tell your friends, hey man, call me the baby shark.
|Let's just hope no one notices.|
Your friends already feel neglected so by about a month or two into the relationship, the Friday night date has turned into full weekends of your friends basically throwing up flyers wondering if your ass has been butchered, raped, torched or all three. But instead you’re just enjoying your time, walking by the lake, riding a bike with them, planning a picnic but eventually just fucking for about three hours.
|Pffft, fuck that|
Eventually you become so comfortable with a person and that every waking moment you’re sending a text or your mind wanders and thinks of what you guys need to accomplish next just so your bucket list is tiny and not so lonely by the time you reach 50 and just want to have sex for the rest of your life.
|Oh yeah, we do it all the time.|
You’re spending all this time (and money) with something your friends could barely care about and are updated on in one form or another. They might try and join in on the activities but usually you’ll try and keep it all for yourself. The actual act of thinking of things to do will eventually just turned into a completed achivements list and you’ll spend full weekends inside just waiting to get that last one to say you’ve truly completed the game 100%...then what? THEN WHAT?
The only thing worse than hearing about how great your life is, is hearing how great your sex life is. Any form of actual achievement, whether it be climbing Mt. Everest, winning a marathon or meeting a celebrity, will often be out done by “ I made her cum” or “We did it in the pool” or even, “We just did it just then”. Not only is it a bit gross and inappropriate even by today’s standards, the act of lovemaking and then bragging should probably be left to internet forums and for swingers parties.
|If either one will have you...|
Your entire sexual life revolves around one thing and both times are too massage your ego. Of course, just hanging with the guys, the beast with two backs becomes the lonely stranger. The actual amount of techniques, tests and endurance measures are discussed so frequently with guys, it’s no wonder Kinsey’s scale had 6 long large sections, just waiting to see where you fit in.
Your friends will often only here two or three things about your life, whether you’re alive, whether you want to hang out and whether or not you care enough to bring booze to the next party. If they cared enough to hear what you and Blamantha did on the weekend, they’d ask, so stop trying to show that the Facebook pictures are being tagged, re-tagged and commented on like crazy, no one gives a rat’s ass. The amount of incessant and unnecessary chatter flowing out of your mouth, about your hobbies and doing stuff together is almost as much as I care about the fleck of dust which might accidentally trip Kim Jong Il’s fingertip to start a nuclear threat.
|Partially concerned, but ultimately apathetic.|
We know you just used the name DeathEater747 because you like planes and you like Harry Potter, we get that but the girl you met on there, what was her name GinnyWeasling555, probably didn’t really el-oh-el at your little quip about Voldemort not being able to smell.
|Hahaha look at his nose, right Gin?|
|Why GinnyWeasling555, Why?|
It’s a Friday night and as much as you wanna hire out Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure, she wants to watch the Notebook for the umpteenth time. “Why don’t you just buy it for her on DVD?”, because then we’d have to watch it all the time, you reply. And in the worst case scenario (which is often the case at the video store), you suggest to her that the Notebook is out, when what you’ve really done is hide them in the porno section (she’ll never look behind “The Fuckbook”) and she suggests a vampire movie.
|Gosling as Clooney, McAdams as Quentin, how awesome would that be?|
|Really? Two Discs?|
|What's so special about it?|
|WHY IS THIS ON BLU-RAY?|
Because your girlfriend is probably not into fun trashy Showtime shows about people fucking, killing, having incredibly shallow discussions about second-class citizenry and probably not awesome, you sit there in stunned silence hoping to get a blowjob at the part where the gay guy turns all glittery and that she doesn’t bite down in strange misunderstood glee.
|FUCK YEAH GONDRY!|
|OH HELL YES IT'S ON BLU-RAY|
|They're called Rom Coms, like your dolls are called Action Figures|
The actual affect of all of these films is meant to hope that somewhere in the near future a form of vertical marketing will gave two sides of your chair in the cinema (or home) have both what you need for just $4 extra for the ticket (or a monthly dispensary fee) in which one side delivers chocolates, whilst the other gives you tissues, full of endorphins…and chocolate.
|Any Endorph-o-choc tissues left?|