“You need Oral, B.”

I was NOT extending you a sexual high-five, nor was I giving you sexual advice, and B is not short for Bitch. You stood so close to me. How do you not smell it yourself? Your breath smells like a disintegrating corpse went down on Courtney Love with a vaginal discharge that smells worse than any waste water treatment plant that I’ve ever drove past. With the centimeters between us from you whispering in my face, how did your fiery shit-vapors not bounce between our closeness, and allow you to smell what I smell?

I know that bad breath is sometimes not the result of bad hygiene, I get it, WebMD I know. But what I don’t understand is how you don’t know about it. Your mouth is the closest thing to your own nose, and yet MY nose is in trench warfare from trying to keep me from fainting.

New Rule Fuckers: If smokers have to stand ten feet from any door entrance as a keep it to themselves acclimate, than you Stankasaurus need to airmail all your fucking not said out loud secrets. I don’t care if its text, a paper-fucking-airplane, a green army parachute guy with one string broken, I don’t fucking care how the secret gets to me. Just don’t grab the back of my fucking head when whispering in my face, with a closeness so close that only kissing or new born babies should enjoy when your breath has a green fucking color associated to it. Can we please just fucking promise that?