Imagine you were raised surrounded by the dulcet sounds of gobbling, a proud snood and symmetrical caruncle outdone only by the most dynamic of wattles, strutting around with your fully eighteen-inch tail feathers signaling your prominence, only to be dishonored in death, described as a filthy clucker, a low-rent, bucket-dwelling, smooth-brained, Kentucky fried shitbird. You own Thanksgiving and Christmas, bitch, and these lemmings out here mistaking you for some foghorn leghorn bitch ass chicken.
Every day I start my day checking the classifieds. Having a look at what other options are out there is a requirement, not an option. If you don't, you risk missing something better.
She's a worldwide stand-in best friend for a metric fuckton of people. I have no quarrel with her, but damn, the mania of the Swifties makes the Joe Rogan bros pale in comparison.
Them getting engaged is like the worst case Ontario