MettaM8fashionpolice

The morning was serene, bright stripes of warmth being cascaded onto the silky bedding. My eyes were closed, but I could see the moderate red glow of the sunlight through the skin. They fluttered open, and the brilliant orb blinded me for a bit like the bitch it is. My only worthy opponents in life were sunlight and the economy. I moved my weight to rest firmly on my elbow, checking on the shifting lover before me as he woke promptly.

My hand rested on his shoulder, he turned his head toward me with a smile. He murred something, I think he tried to say "Good morning.", but he has diabetes and he had just woke up, also I don't speak braindamage. The only reply I could conjure was a kiss on the cheek as I crawled off the bed, going to check my laptop which was waiting for me on the table for me to put my dirty hands all over its slick keyboard. Okay, maybe I got a bit carried away with that, but we've all done lewd things in the presence of electronics.

I ran a check through Skype, Tumblr, Gmail, all the usual shit of butthurt SJWs telling me to drink bleach. (Like I hadn't already thought of that.)  I did have a new email from the Trump campaign, though. They said the new rally in MO was about to happen, not that I was awake enough to give a shit. I looked over Skype, trying to find somebody to bug the shit out of to satisfy my craving for human suffering and panic, not that I was disturbing enough to inspire either of those in another individual. Need to clean up my fucking act.

The only person online was Rachel, my old lady friend from that economic lapdog of the UK, full of cross-dressers in denial blowing through pipes into an unhealthily large scrotum. I met her a while back on that shithole DA, and we've been close friends ever since. I tried to strike a conversation naturally.

"Morning. :3"

"It's 2 PM here, dickweed." She replied. I could already imagine that pleasant Scottish accent of hers throwing outdated slang at me from over 4,000 miles away._

"Oh, right, timezones and stuff. Cool. So, could you do me a favor?"

"Eat shit and die you brown faggot fuck."

You know that crazy old cat lady that lives at the end of your street? Well, she can fuck off, because Rachel will blow her ass away with some old-fashioned roasts these new kids can't even understand half the time.

The conversation went on for another half an hour before I had to bring up Trump, and her response was one of the most glorious things I'd ever read.

"Shouldn't you kids in America be playing Undertale instead of worrying about who gets elected out of Gay Old Pedophiles or whatever they call it?"

I could only reply with "Nah."

"Listen, I've been in business since you were a goddamn jizz stain on an old hot dog wrapper, and I'll tell you one thing, Trump is an idiot."

I don't think I'd ever physically cringed reading something Rachel had written before, but this took the cake. We argued for almost an hour, going nowhere with it. She was a diehard lover of the Nordic Model and Bernie Sanders, and I had to cure her. In the end, I was left mentally exhausted and grasping at straws, until she said one thing, that I will never forget.

"Mexicans aren't rapists." She had typed, and I had a foothold. I could point out how flawed that statement was, considering that every race had its fair share of rapists. In the end, neither of us really gave a fuck and we ended up talking about how retarded David Cameron was, which was good for both of us to finally agree on something. The end.

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