I won't hold your hand in public because first, I am allergic to the outdoors and stupid people.
And second, because if you don't know where you're going, then you're probably underage, and I stay up way past your bedtime.
I won't text you fifty thousand times a day, and no, it's not your jeans, sweetheart; it's the ten tubs of ice cream a day that makes your ass look fat.
No, I don't want to watch The Notebook, but I wouldn't mind making a porn.
Music and cocktails beat pointless conversations about feelings.
Love is a bit of a stretch, but you're kind of okay.
I won't lie, and I've become too lazy to cheat.
As I will pass on the peach because you seldom even wash your feet.
I'm far from a snuggle buddy and more like a chainsaw in the sack.
Hell to start up, sort of like the bull in the proverbial China shop.
As I have a tendency to leave behind quite the mess.
But I'm fun on occasion and won't read you my poetry because I seldom read those I publish either.
If you think I'm such a vile male pig, just imagine dating me.
Aww, are you going to have nightmares now?
That makes me so happy.
Now plug in your nightlight and stay the fuck off your Facebook because, newsflash, none of those fake fucks likes you to begin with.
All but me because without you, who would I pick on?
I think we're alone now. Welcome to hell!
JPR was last heard from flying over the Bermuda triangle.
He has been missing now for three weeks yet still sends out poetry submissions.
His work was first discovered in an Aztec ruin where he was worshiped amongst the gods as he introduced the Mayans to the Internet, who thought it was a huge waste of time.
Even in death, he still doesn't like you.