I Love It When You Call Me Bitch Tits

Oh my precious darling, when I wake up in the morning and jiggle what I have to wiggle and you slap me on the ass and tell me to shake my curly fries over to the kitchen to fix you a vodka and orange juice, my heart simply stops for one ecstasy-filled moment. Do you realize that when you tell me you love me even though I have a micropenis, there’s simply no containing my satisfaction? And when you lock me in the closet with nothing more than a bowl of chipmunks and your pet oatmeal and go visit your boyfriend down the street, I’m simply breathless with devotion.

I love it when you call me Bitch Tits. Though you certainly don’t need my permission, you can continue to call me that whenever you’d like. And, yes, you may also drill some holes in my body and use me as a pool table at our party next weekend.

Your love is like an anvil falling on my head. Your love is like a swimming pool filled with epileptic ducks. Your love bloats me with expired dairy products. Your love is like bacon grease dribbling down a vegan’s throat.

I’m yours, darling. Even though they say you’re “just a cat,” I know our love is special.