Her rival beat her to a bloody pulp with lime green fishnet pantyhose. She decided to quit while she was behind, curtsy clumsy and exit into the social media sunset, thousands of desperate attention whore photographs in her wake. The prize was the heart of a lusty poet and potential novelist, certainly nothing to sniff at. He had credentials. Also. He possessed a wicked absinthe soaked tongue that suggested smug pussy knowledge. The man seemed pretty goddamn secure. Brazen, even, brilliant with flaunt. Social media was his candy shop, always open for business, vivacious with winks and smirks. Oh sweetest sanctuary of furtive seek and hide, browse and maybe buy. Suck until the flavor is gone, find a new piece. Like that but classier and more like a leisurely game of chess or Connect Four.

Loser chick imagined winner chick fucking poet man on a stainless steel credenza, his black clothes and her colorful fuck me faster dress a tantalizing jumble on the gleaming linoleum. With a ravaged sigh loser chick swallowed the dregs of the cheap Texas wine and wrote I AM DOO DOO on her left calf with a licorice scented marker. The ghost of Buddy Holly taunted her from the toilet. She was a fool for the goddamn roller coaster.

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