Walking to school this morning with Beckie and Freckles wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. That may have been because I thought, by the end of it, one of us was going to be in agony – and it wouldn’t be me.
Consequently, it was me who ended up in agony. But not in the same way I first meant it. No, I had to endure mental torment because Freckles called me the fabled nickname I have unwillingly and begrudgingly adopted since I had my hair cut short.
So, in response to me calling him “Freckles”, Freckles called me by that name. Little does he fucking know, I’m tormented on a regular basis by that fucking name and don’t exactly fucking appreciate being called it. Is he tormented on a daily fucking basis by “Freckles”? No. I don’t think so.
Freckles, just because you’re so insecure that you still can’t let your girlfriend (or probably anybody around you) have an inside joke, doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me.
If I have the brain and gene pattern typically found in psychopaths, you’d better fucking watch out, darlin’.

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