Dear BNB, Was That You?
While I was sleeping this morning I had this weird feeling that someone was standing above me masturbating. Was that you by any chance?
Dear Double D,
I don't believe I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. So, nope, not me. I know what's going on here though. The meat-jacking ghost-like presence is not an uncommon occurrence among ladies such as yourself. It's just the latest manifestation in a long line of unexplainable things in your life. It's the same reason you fucked the whole football team at that one house party in high school. It's also why you went through that feminist lesbian phase your freshman year of college. And it's why you're dancing around poles and on tables for a living now even though you have bachelor's degree in social work. What's going on here is simple: You're being haunted by a suppressed memory of your stepfather. I'd recommend regularly seeing a psychologist to work through this issue. Just make sure you never drink any water during your therapy session that isn't handed to you in an unopened bottle or you'll never get past square one.
Send your queries and/or trolling attempts to "Dear BNB" at firstname.lastname@example.org
Labels: Dear BikeNewBlack