Fuckboi Diagnosed With Feelings


This week the Mayo (not cool whip) Journal of Medicine released the newest medical phenomenon; Feelings have been diagnosed in the fuckboi race. Not only is this unheard of, but the researchers behind this project are absolutely stunned in their findings. They were quoted saying that this past week has been an series of ‘clusterfucks’. 
They came across the perfect study – you’re basic Queen’s guy. He fit all the criteria: went to the gym more than 6 times a week, spent over six hundred dollars a year on protein powder and other supplements, has no other pants other than khakis and joggers, always has three condoms in his wallet at all times (as if he is really going to get laid three times in one night), only listens to rap music, wears wife-beaters, and socks with his Nike sandals. During the study, they found that this specific fuckboi was really lacking feelings. He would blow through girls faster than his Pabst Blue Ribbon on a Tuesday night at Tumble and not have single hit of empathy. All he cared about was whether or not his dick was satisfied. All of this came crumbling down when he ran out of Pabst, had to hit the vodka and got rejected for the first time. Fuckbois usually get confused by the female race, especially if their pH level is not near the 10-14 range. Ergo, his palms were sweaty, knees weak, his arms got heavy and then his reputation on the verge of the Grand Canyon. So, he did what any decent fuckboi would do and went for another girl. This one he thought to be more basic than the first one. She seemed down so he took her back to his res room in Vic. Not soon after she saw the copious containers of protein powder and the 10 pizza boxes in the corner did she decide to run for the hills. So she peaced. 
Left alone in his room, fuckboi began to feel something. It wasn’t sore muscles from his sick workout the day before, nor was it the hangover headache he was going to get in the morning. It was something more, his stomach hurt, and that thing in his chest that didn’t really work began to. His heart hurt. Fuckboi wanted to know why this girl had left. He hadn’t done anything wrong really, he had been a perfect piece of shit. He lied to her and said that he didn’t have a girlfriend (whoops), complemented her outfit and told her that she was the most beautiful girl in the room. Pretty standard moves. He felt bad for some reason though, so he grabbed the bottle of rose wine his roommate’s girlfriend had been drinking earlier that night. That shitty four dollar bottle of wine was the best thing to have ever touched his lips and it complimented his whimpering cries all night.