This guy on Tinder calls me ****. My skin rolls with repulsion. You see, I hate the word ****. It sounds like a sixth grader Hopped up on hormones Made it up to be funny And I deleted all of middle school Out of my memory.
I say ‘**** isn’t a word I’d use to define me’. He asks what word I would use. I say ‘Weird Hot’. The fine line between Tastefully quirky wrapped in cute And downright strange. The type of strange That leaves you with only two friends, An X-files Poster, And a cardboard cutout of Harry Styles That is riddled with Purple kiss marks.
He says ‘You are weird. And hot.’ My skin rolls with repulsion once more. I don’t want him to think I’m hot. I want him to think me weird. I want him to tell his friends “Yo look at this weird ******* tinder. Her bio is ‘HELP IM STUCK IN A FORTUNE COOKIE FACTORY’”
But no, To him I am hot. To him The quality doesn’t matter As long as the packaging is pretty.