I'm finding myself halfway through fights with women before:
1) I even know why we're fighting.
2) I even know that we're fighting.
It's like walking into this lovely little cafe that has the dankest sandwich and delicious petite fries and then all of a sudden, the awnings give way and the hanging plants disappear and BAM. IT'S A MOTHERFUCKING UFC CAGE! Oh, where's that beverage you ordered? "FUCK YOUR LEMONADE!" CHUCK LIDELL TELLS YOU BEFORE KICKING YOU IN THE DICK. "Did you want to sit outside on the patio?" the maitre'd asks. "Yeah, sure," you reply calmly. TOO BAD! BY "PATIO," I HOPE YOU MEANT BEING SLAPPED AROUND LIKE A PRISON BITCH BY B.J. PENN. Oh, you want corn chowder soup? WE DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THE FUCK THAT IS!
Whoa.
Either I should figure out women a little bit better or I should actually start watching UFC to figure out just how realistic this post is.
Either I should figure out women a little bit better or I should start watching UFC to figure out how realistic this post is.
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