Illustration by Bob AulHey, you: the fugly, butterfly-tattooed troll with ankles as big as your thighs. Just because you like to pretend you're getting married to your boyfriend—yeah, the same boy you slept with back when he was still my boyfriend—doesn't mean it's going to happen. You see, although you've tried your hardest these past two years to prevent him from hanging out with me or any of his other friends, he's been trying to break into my pants. The guy's like a klepto where my thong is concerned. I tried to resist, being a beacon of morality, but the other night—after about nine beers—I broke down. He needed me, and I have always been a sucker for a friend in need, you know. Of course, that's only after I get what I want first.
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