Hashtags were born after the death of logic
Without wasting a single second in stripteasing and foreplay, let’s get the lube and fuck straightaway. Time for sensual pleasures used to exist before the term “selenophile” came into the dictionary of Insta peeps. Ever since then I have been consistently pissed off while looking at my IG timeline. My frustration went to such an extent that now I don’t check it. I simply post my cartoons in order to give the painter of Mona Lisa a challenge to beat my shitty artistic talent and skills. He wins all the time. And to make myself a winner at a game of not much pride and brag, I have written the following words as a tribute to the men and women on IG who never fail to disappoint me with their lack of intellect, common sense and at times, both. Entertaining yourself at the expense of other people’s nerve cell deprivation and improper synaptic connections is pure fun. If it is not fun for you, I am sorry. You’re stressed beyond my ability to grasp. Get and life. Take a walk. And please do walk away from here. Now we start insulting the Instagram bios!
Yeah, I would wish you. I don’t wish my mother but I’ll wish you. Why? Because I have seen this written in your bio. You are highly self-obsessed and deserve stinky shit wrapped in a gift box on your birthday. I hope you get one this year. Then you’ll change your bio to make a little sense.
This lady doesn’t know that the place to argue is Twitter. On a photo-sharing platform, she is trying to be cool and activist and change maker of sorts. Undoubtedly, her list of agendas includes making people vegan and forcing them to cycle to work. People are strange. But I didn’t know that strangeness is being equated with foolishness these days. Maybe I don’t argue as much as her. Anyways, let her go deaf listening to her own shouts. Then devil from hell will laugh at her debating skills where she used pictures to justify her dumb concepts.
If you don’t know who is Deepak Chopra, let me tell you who that pseudo-spiritual leader of retards is. Oh, I just told you. This pamphlet of Karma disguised as a woman is surely a follower of Deepak and chants mantras when her cab driver is not able to find her location. May the supernatural give her destiny a green light towards understanding that one’s delusional ideologies about the world need not be out-rightly projected on social media. Yours are anyways pathetic.
Why will coffee break anyone’s heart? And for that matter, if you have so much trust on a coffee for being faithful, loyal and sensitive, go and befriend him. Then dip your dildo in it to pleasure yourself. That will be one hell of an example where coffee helped someone get an orgasm. Cupid shall also visit Starbucks then. You know, to drop a thank you note.
What kind of bird hums poetry in sleep? An insomniac bird. This girl is surely a wannabe and should start living in reality. But to do so requires simplifying the complex metaphors that she has been playing in their head ever since she read Julius the fucking Ceaser. This poet deserves a standing ovation from nobody. Help her the gods of literature for she hums poetry in sleep. Help her the therapists for she thinks she is a bird. An owl just laughed. Thanks man.
They do get to you on soul level if you post pictures of your soul. But it is not possible because you have an ass that diverts all the attention from your magnificent eyes to the camel toe that your followers have been following from your first ever post. You better start interacting with real human beings in real life. Unless of course, you spend your whole day clicking selfies to build more fan following which ends up making your soul crave for even more validation.
So you love dogs more than human beings. Marry one. You’ll know what dogs are like. Just because he licks your face and brings likes to your worse than ugly pictures, it doesn’t make humans any less good than dogs. Ironically, your followers are humans. Not dogs. Logic 101 for you miss dog lover.
This was the last thing I would be interested in knowing because it somehow appears to have arrived directly from Nicholas Sparks’ awfully nauseating books. We remember days and not moments, you silly prick. That’s why people celebrate birthdays and not coming out of vagina moments. But we are on Instagram, remember. If you made sense, you would have a life outside of your profile. This man surely doesn’t have one. Bad moment for him if he is reading this. Sorry dude.
No. She wrote that in her bio. She seriously wrote that. Go and smash your head with the phone you have in your hand. You arrogant piece of privileged iPhone user who buys food on Zomato.
Say hello to this woman who thinks of herself as someone no less than Kim Kardashian. Even our miss queen of booties wouldn’t have such an audacity to call someone a stalker simply because they happen to open her profile. But this overly careless woman, she lives in a world of her own. In that world, people are stalkers and not normal human beings who check each other’s profiles. Maybe that’s the reason her followers are less than one-third of the people she follows. You are the real stalker. Miss loser.
The above two lines seem to be completely unrelated to each other because this man’s prefrontal cortex and amygdala are out of sync. I bet he suffers from mental illness of a specific kind where he is not able to make any sense in what he is trying to convey. Anyways, he’ll improve. For that, he’ll have to stop posting fake candid images of him riding a bike and start living a happy life. But that’s not possible because living your life on your own terms doesn’t guarantee short term ego boost which Instagram does. So he’ll remain as big of a waste as he now is.
Stop. Pretending. Your. Life. Is. Perfect. Fuck. Off. Be. Sad. Die. While. Sleeping.
The maximum level of thrill this travel enthusiast must have found would have been in talking to strangers on a train journey. Or maybe while paragliding with a dozen solo soul seekers because she seems rich enough to be a customer of Zara and can afford paragliding. Travelling is not about posting pics because that makes you a photo collector and not a traveller. Henry David Thoreau had no camera when he stayed in the woods and wrote Walden. She and other wanderlusters are the people who have corrupted the mind of an average man to falsely convince others in believing that he also loves wanderlust. One day she’ll drop her phone in a pond along with her selfie stick. She’ll return with no pictures and travel karma will be granted.
It doesn’t work like that. I want to be loved by someone moving their tongue on my lollipop every morning. But I want to love by making my fingers do the magic of making a lady scream my name. These two scenarios are totally different from each other which clearly means that you don’t have to love how you want to be loved. This man is wrong and I am right.
Preserving every bit of the world would leave us with no food to eat, no place to shit and no water to wash our butts. Besides overly glorifying and beautifying the world, you should do something enough worthwhile in your life that your desire to care and nurture mother Earth lowers more than your testosterone level. You, my friend, are depressed by my calculations. I bet you haven’t received female touch ever since you were born and when you’re in such a state, wonderful world and similar thoughts are quite natural and very normal. Things will change dude. They will change. Start by getting your hormone levels checked.
I am not writing anything more about people who have made their experiences a commodity for others to chew on. If you’re hollow enough to write such things for the sake of receiving unnecessary admiration, I am done. Done. Done. Done.
What does this even mean? She is trying to sell non-quantifiable things by measuring them against another non-quantifiable thing. That requires some genuine effort in failing high school a dozen times. I respect her for that and wish that she was born with more IQ than what Donald Trump presently has.
Yeah. I know who you are. You are the heavenly beauty who stepped down on our planet from a golden palace in the clouds. Arrogance till one level is okay and bearable. But assuming people know you just because your cleavage looks like cleavage is too much of an arrogance driven mindset to showcase. I don’t buy that shit. I don’t wanna know you even though I know for the fact that you ooze plenty of narcissism from all your orifices.
Take a breath. All of what you finished reading was meant to make me feel better about myself because my mind is very sensitive to the bullshit that comes within its radar. I wanted to empty my cup in the language of Buddha. In case my rants brought a smile on your face, it is okay. But remember that it was not specifically the goal. #Bye.