Oh Bouda, with your feline face upon a tanned Iranian body and Baywatch dirty blonde hair. There you sit, beautiful like a Persian twat…cat, cat, I meant cat….tapping away at your computer, probably facebooking or looking at Vogue online.
How I long to spend endless hours with you discussing geopolitical issues and the meaning of life. I know, I know, you’d probably just stare at me with complete and utter vacancy but that isn’t the point is it?
What? I’m supposed to be a good listener? Now, what the fuck am I going to listen for? Your discussion on what you’re wearing or your personal problems (you’ve probably got Daddy issues)?
Seriously, I don’t think this is going to work, Bouda. If you really think I’m going to listen to endless drivel about the state of affairs in “The Hills” then you’ve got another fuckin’ thing coming.
Ohhhhh, but you’re so delightful. Ohhhhh, the confusion, the pain….I don’t know, which way to turn…but I know which way to turn you….that’s it lovely, you face the wall and I’ll be back in a tick after I’ve brushed my teeth.