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I’m the chillest ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ you’ll ever meet, and I don’t ask much from nobody, but I like my theories coherent, my claims empirically supported and my equations void of infinities. I don’t know nothing ‘bout no 26 dimensions or superstrings, I like theories with as many dimensions as me and my wife share balls: 4. I don’t need no microscopic dimensions, I don’t need no hula hoop vibrations to yangle my dangle, and the only string I know is the one I wore to your daughter’s birthday party.
Is that too much for a man to ask these days?
✔️You done a racism.
✔️You done a sexism.
✔️You done a bi-erasure.
✔️You heckin disrespected sex work.
✔️You called me "Joe Cuckhold"
Steam commenting is my weapon of justice, and the block button my bullet.
Pow.
"Well, see ya," I say and walk away. I've got her attention now. How many guys voluntarily leave a conversation with Greta Thunberg? She touches her neck as she watches me leave.
Later, as the night's dragged on and the coterie of gorgeous narcissists grows increasingly loose, she finds me on the balcony, my bowtie undone, smoking a cigarette.
"Got a spare?" she asks.
"What's in it for me?" I say as I hand her one of my little white ladies. She smiles.
"Conversation with me, duh."
I laugh.
"What's so funny?" she protests.
"You get used to it," she says, lighting her cigarette and handing me back the lighter.
"What would you do if you weren't a climate change activist?" I ask.
"Teaching, I think."
"And if I was your student, what would I be learning?"
"Discipline," she says quickly, looking up into my eyes, before changing the subject. "Where are you from?"
"Mexico" I say.
"Oh wow. That's lovely."
"It's OK," I admit. "Not everything is to my liking."
"What could possibly be not to your liking in Mexico?" she inquires.
"I don't like sand," I tell her. "It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere."