Jasmine finally dropped her boyfriend like a UFC spectator with a staring problem. What a relief, if she'd wanted to waste 3 years on something that offered her no future, she could've just done an Arts degree. Unshackled, she was ready to let her hair down.
Dealing with life after love called for some reinvention. So she started brewing her own Kombucha, she dusted off the old yoga mat and most importantly she reconnected with her besties.
See, while she was dating old meth-lungs McGee she tended to hang out with his cretinous friends. Her mates were thrilled when she started bantering in the group-chat and even committed to every social event they planned.
Like Kevin Spacey, all it took was the realisation that she was focused on the wrong dick to actually come out. Truly a blessing, as friends who only remember you exist when they are at rock bottom are truly the best friends of all.
At her first major event since the break-up, the girls wooo’d to the sound of Rosé-filled glasses clinking as they shat on masculinity like Clementine Ford using an old Zoo magazine as toilet paper.
“Who needs a man when I’ve got my 10s woooooooooo”. She promised she'd never abandon her girls again, and would de-cockify her life like Old McDonald wanting his sleep ins back.
Well, that strong independent woman shit lasted about 4 hours, when she found herself looking lustfully into the first guy who paid her a half-compliment, “you remind me of a chick I fucked”. O Cunteo! Wherefore art thou Cunteo.
Almost immediately, she ditched her friends and danced with her slurring lothario until realising he was cut from the same jizz-cloth as her last loser boyfie, “let's go to a cubicle baby”. No dice cheesedick, nobody puts baby in the piss covered corner.
She continued to involve herself with her friends for at least a few weeks. That was until she realised she was as codependent as a joint Facebook account and jumped on Tinder.
Over the next month of her life, she cut through more scum than a bottle of Shower Power. Almost every guy she met claimed to be hot shit but disappeared as soon as she flushed the toilet of commitment.
Except for one. One turd that clung on and didn’t disappear into the murky sewerage of online dating. He’d shown he could stick around, and although not entirely pleasant, he was still there for her.
Her mates were less enthusiastic about the news, “he sounds a lot like the others Jassy”. So just like a Tour de France rider with a fresh batch of human growth hormone, so began the same familiar cycle.
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