A cunt I know —I say “I know” in the sense that I know her mind better than she does, but that’s a low bar to clear—said that she was feeling good about herself this morning. So I sent her a video of a girl with a body so unbelievably perfect that it merits sonnets and songs and a round of applause that trails it wherever it goes.
The cunt replied by apologizing for even momentarily seeing herself on a continuum with such magnificence, asking if she should save it to watch when she’s thinking about skipping the gym, and declaring she didn’t know whether to cry or rub against something.
I of course accepted her apology, told her yes, and assured her that there’s nothing better than rubbing against things while crying. I then informed her that I was proud of her for so humble a reply, and that her embrace of her place makes her a kind of pretty that’s all her own.
So you’re wrong, I’m still fairly mean. But yeah, I’ve gone a little soft.