14/02/2025
Bro, you asked her to come over, and she said yes. You wanted everything to be perfect, so you made sure your place was spotless. And I mean spotless—nothing was left untouched. You washed your beddings, cleaned your curtains, scrubbed all the utensils. Your apartment was now looking like a model home. I remember when your place used to resemble a garage, man, it was that bad. But because she was coming over, you pulled out all the stops. You even sprayed some perfume to make sure it smelled amazing.
You borrowed a woofer from your neighbor because you wanted the mood to be right. You were planning to kick back and enjoy some smooth Justin Bieber love songs with your girl. I see you, man, acting all romantic like you’re straight out of a rom-com. The thing is, we both know you can't cook. But suddenly, with her coming over, you’re acting like you’re the next top chef. If anyone didn’t know better, they'd think you’ve been to culinary school. But nah, bro. It’s all for her. You’re making all these tasty dishes because you want to impress her, even though you’ve been eating bland, tasteless food for weeks. This is a whole new level of pretending, but hey, she’s worth it.
Then, she arrives. You greet her like two politicians about to sign a deal—shaking hands, no hug. Not even a simple embrace. You play it cool, though. A little awkward, but no big deal, right? You serve her lunch at around 3 PM, and within five minutes, she clears the plate like a famished lion. Meanwhile, you're just sitting there, thinking you’re the man. But hold up—she’s still glued to her phone, chatting away with some other dude. You play some RnB to set the mood, but she’s not even paying attention to you. Not even a little. I’m not surprised, though, man—you're talking about soccer and American politics instead of, I don't know, connecting with her or building some kind of chemistry. She's not here for a lecture on Manchester United's victory over Arsenal or U.S. politics.
Hours pass, and n