Man, I shit you not. I was dating this broad who, when we were about to fall asleep, the bitch always had to have the fan on. She would do this even during the winter months, and up here in Wisconsin, those twelve weeks can get fairly brutal. Now, the stupidest part of it was that the fan didn't have to be blowing upon the bed where the both of us rested. No, it simply blew against the wall or the ceiling. Well isn't that just sweet. Yea, I was annoyed as hell, but the paint in the room was definitely dryer than anyone else's on the fuckin' block.
Here's the bow on that already-fine package of bullshit: I snore. I mean, I snore unlike most others. It's so bad that I often hesitate to fall asleep at other people's homes as to not automatically feel embarrassed the next day because I already know I'm going to cause an unintentional disturbance. Well, since I snore so badly, this broad eventually went out and purchased ear plugs because she couldn't bear it anymore . . . and guess what? Yea, that's right: the fan still had to be on with her ear plugs in! Jesus Christ. Thinking back on it now angers me only because I didn't get a change to punch her in the throat.
Yea, women sure can come up with some stupid crap, all right. Bad enough they're a package deal, already having a kid or a couple cats when they take over your kitchen yet don't do the dishes, but holy fuck, gimme a break in the bedroom for Christ's sake. What does this fan represent: a lullaby that wasn't sung into your hungry ears as a toddler, or a noise you firmly concentrated on while your dad was beating your mother ten years ago every Saturday night? Course, then if you don't want the fan on, you're insensitive to her needs. Yea, her needs, like she's so special. I swear,
every broad on the planet thinks they can purr on dandelions and up comes the roses.
Reminds me of that cartoon with that fucking loser of a skunk, Pepé Le Pew always trying to fuck that hoity-toity bitch who belonged in a litter box. Ya know, he was always trying to get laid by bringing her chocolates and basically smelling her farts then proclaiming they smelt like baby feet. What-the-fuck-ever. And it totally makes sense that broads would watch shit like that and think it remotely resembles real life since their brain-usage efficiency is the equivalent of a single pea rolling down a five-lane highway.
You need the fan on to fall asleep, hey? Well, what a coincidence, because rather than counting sheep myself, I need my penis combined with your mouth to play stewardess as I fly into REM cycle. Let's deal. That's it: a blow job will now forever be considered meeting you half way. If you're too tired, or you don't feel like it, or I haven't showered in a day, so what. Fine, then don't do it, but the fan will then wait until June, retard. Jesus Christ. The fan . . . Oh my God.
How fucking stupid is that?
"I need the fan on to fall asleep," she whines.
