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More Classic Copypastas
Hello, Kripparrian, this is your ass, Assarrian
twitchquotes:Hello, Kripparrian, this is your ass, Assarrian, with a humble request to stop talking out of me. I know it's fun to pretend like you have any idea what you're talking about, and to pull random statistics out of me to support whatever point you're awkwardly trying to make, but come on! I have a hard enough time dealing with the vegan garbage in your digestive tract! Do us both a favor and use your brain once in a while! Thanks! - Assarrian.
Hello, Kripparrian, this is your ass, Assarrian, with a humble request to stop talking out of me. I know it's fun to pretend like you have any idea what you're talking about, and to pull random statistics out of me to support whatever point you're awkwardly trying to make, but come on! I have a hard enough time dealing with the vegan garbage in your digestive tract! Do us both a favor and use your brain once in a while! Thanks! - Assarrian.
CTRL WTF for Fancy WTF
twitchquotes: HOLD CTRL AND TYPE "WTF" FOR ℱ𝓪𝓷𝓬𝔂 𝓦𝓣ℱ
( ͠° ͟ʖ ͡°) OVERCONFIDENCE IS A SLOW AND INSIDIOUS KILLER ( ͠° ͟ʖ ͡°)
Natalie Portman is the reason I work out
Natalie Portman is the reason I work out. I have this fantasy where we start talking at the Vanity Fair Oscars party bar. We exchange a few pleasantries. She asks what I do. I say I loved her in New Girl. She laughs. I get my drink.
"Well, see ya," I say and walk away. I've got her attention now. How many guys voluntarily leave a conversation with Natalie Portman? She touches her neck as she watches me leave.
Later, as the night's dragged on and the coterie of gorgeous narcissists grows increasingly loose, she finds me on the balcony, my bowtie undone, smoking a cigarette.
"Got a spare?" she asks.
"What's in it for me?" I say as I hand her one of my little white ladies. She smiles.
"Conversation with me, duh."
I laugh.
"What's so funny?" she protests.
"Nothing, nothing... It's just... don't you grow tired of the egos?"
"You get used to it," she says, lighting her cigarette and handing me back the lighter.
"What would you do if you weren't an actress?" I ask.
"Teaching, I think."
"And if I was your student, what would I be learning?"
"Discipline," she says quickly, looking up into my eyes, before changing the subject. "Where are you from?"
"Bermuda," I say.
"Oh wow. That's lovely."
"It's ok," I admit. "Not everything is to my liking."
"What could possibly be not to your liking in Bermuda?" she inquires.
"I don't like sand," I tell her. "It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere."
Natalie Portman is the reason I work out. I have this fantasy where we start talking at the Vanity Fair Oscars party bar. We exchange a few pleasantries. She asks what I do. I say I loved her in New Girl. She laughs. I get my drink.
"Well, see ya," I say and walk away. I've got her attention now. How many guys voluntarily leave a conversation with Natalie Portman? She touches her neck as she watches me leave.
Later, as the night's dragged on and the coterie of gorgeous narcissists grows increasingly loose, she finds me on the balcony, my bowtie undone, smoking a cigarette.
"Got a spare?" she asks.
"What's in it for me?" I say as I hand her one of my little white ladies. She smiles.
"Conversation with me, duh."
I laugh.
"What's so funny?" she protests.
"Nothing, nothing... It's just... don't you grow tired of the egos?"
"You get used to it," she says, lighting her cigarette and handing me back the lighter.
"What would you do if you weren't an actress?" I ask.
"Teaching, I think."
"And if I was your student, what would I be learning?"
"Discipline," she says quickly, looking up into my eyes, before changing the subject. "Where are you from?"
"Bermuda," I say.
"Oh wow. That's lovely."
"It's ok," I admit. "Not everything is to my liking."
"What could possibly be not to your liking in Bermuda?" she inquires.
"I don't like sand," I tell her. "It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere."