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Mornings are garbage. You’re tired and hungover, but you have to get out of bed and do stuff, so you could use a little motivation. A little pick-me-up. A little morning bump, if you will. Well here you go, big dog. Put this metaphorical straw to your nose and snort.
You’re Not Fuckin’ Leaving
To be fair, he probably should’ve just left. But you? You’re not committing white collar fraud on a massive scale. Or maybe you are — I don’t know, fuck it. The point is, nobody takes what’s yours. Not the government, not the dean of students, not your parents, not your girlfriend, not your dipshit neighbor…nobody. They’re gonna need a fucking wrecking ball to take your shit. They’re gonna have to bring in the National Guard, a fuckin’ SWAT team to keep you from crushing life like it’s a tiny bug that crawled into your kitchen uninvited. And even if they catch you, you’ll just El Chapo your way out and keep running game, because you can’t be stopped. You’re a machine — an unstoppable war machine designed by God himself to wreak havoc upon everything in your way and make fuck.
What Is It Your Period?
Hey fuckhead, it’s time to wake up. We’re halfway through the damn week, and you’ve already watched a badass clip from “The Wolf Of Wall Street” this morning, so you really have no excuse to not be maxing out on life right now. This is your day, and nobody else’s. Don’t even wear underwear. Just free ball like a psychopath so that there’s nothing but a few weak centimeters of fabric between the world and your bulbous, veiny nutsack. Greet strangers by barking at them like a rabid dog to really set the tone and share the fact that you’re a highly disturbed type of badass. Shoot finger pistols and an extremely sexual and uncomfortable wink at every female you pass on campus. Get weird. Why not?
Till It’s Gone
“Thursdays are for making deals and spanking women.” -Albert Einstein, 1943. You have two choices. You can either let this be another Thursday that you totally forget about a few years from now, or you can make this a Thursday that you remember for the rest of your life. How? Get a tattoo on your dick that says “ASS MASTER.” Or just approach that smoking hot 10 at the bar that you’re normally way too big of a pussy to talk to. Or call your mom and tell her you love her or something nice like that. It’s whatever. Years from now, when you’re dead and gone, people can either be like “Remember that Thursday when Jim got ‘ASS MASTER’ tatted on his dingaling, and then approached that smoking hot 10 at the bar that he was always afraid to talk to, and then called his mom just to be sweet and tell her he loved her?” or they can be like “Jim was cool I guess.” Your call..