Dear John Doe,
You're obvious and nasty. I know what you want and I'm not giving it to you. I really won't. The initial interest is officially over. You're cute, yes you are, but I just can't fall for the gentleman trap. And especially when you don't play it off very well to begin with. I gave you three chances which is well beyond my norm. The club was strike number one, though it almost past as a preliminary experience. Strike two was all your late night texting which is probably alcohol inspired and induced. Strike three was when you tried to make me feel bad for being an appropriate human being with a little bit of class, manners and boundaries. You're a fucking douche for even going there with me.
Yeah, it’s always something. That something will always be the fact that I'm not having sex with you! You're really not that good and your swag is kind of on the lame side. Nothing good ever happens after midnight man. I hope you know that. So you're 3AM pleas to "hang out" will never happen. Ever. I'm sure your looks get a lot accomplished on the sexual front but I'm always going to be here to reassure you that your looks aren't enough. So cut a loss and move on. I'm sure there's other simple and loose bitches that'll open up to your aggression. Go to hell whore...
-A lesson that has come with great consequence, and now I will be more judgmental.
Signed,
Harvey Champagne.
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