Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and technically married:
Rough winds do shake your windows in May
whilst I spy on thee from the dark bushes
Sometime thy lover with a baseball bat doth scare
And often is his red complexion seen
Yet I continue to love thee from afar
For the restraining order thou didst place
So undeservedly after my last post
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of my love thou wants
But has of yet to know thou want’est it
So long as I can breathe I will love thee,
Just tell thy husband to stop hitting me.
Written by Sir Ryan and William Shakespeare, in honor of St. Valentine’s Day for ye fair wench Stephanie Banks-Dickson
P.S. Forgive my misuse of iambic pentameter. I am much afflicted with passionate humours.
Please stop singing sonnets to me. I mean, I’m really flattered, but you have to stop. I’ve returned the lock of hair you sent me through UPS, tracking number 1Z998700993807300 just in case you want it back. Again, really sweet, but I can’t accept.
Poetry, dude. I like it. Get the girl, bro!
Seriously, leave her and her husband alone. The morning I made her strawberry pancakes and came over to find you singing the Beatles “Yesterday” on a mandolin…well, that was just sad. And Brandon, you’re a creep, too.
Whatever, dude. Maybe you don’t know what it means to be heartbroken, but I just got out of a 2-month relationship, so I know the pain.
Wow, sorry there Casanova. Maybe you and Sir Ryan should start a band since you both know how to be heartbroken over women who don’t belong to you.
Hey! She was planning on breaking up with him the entire two months we dated, so it was all fair game, hater. It’s not my fault I lost interest as soon as it finally ended.
BTW, Stephanie doesn’t belong to YOU either.
We’re just besties, you loser.
Both of you stop it! You’re making this worse than it actually is. Brandon, Evan is just my best friend, and has been since we were on cheer squad in high school. Evan, if you want to vent, we’ll talk at brunch tomorrow.
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