Evil

Evil is when I specifically tell you that fresh haircuts on men are my absolute weakness and then you respond with "ohh that reminds me," and come back from a barber 20 minutes later. WTF IS THAT?!? Then I have to look at you for the rest of the day. I can't… I can't even. Jerk.

Evil is when you close out our conversation with a Drake line. Fuck you. You know what that does to me… Asshole. Your lines are getting old tho, you need to dig deeper for new material. My personal cache is pretty vast, you need to do work.

Evil is when you insult me (cause I really do love being called out on all the right things) and then hit me with a compliment five seconds later. You diabolical fucking mastermind, I hate you.

You all know exactly who you are.

But I'm not quite innocent myself—cause I know exactly when to turn on my witty clever persona to make you laugh. I know when to pull a specifically pieced outfit out of my closet and wear it that day. I know to keep this short A-line haircut, cause you say its the best look on me. I know how to walk mean as fuck, down the sidewalk, next to you. I know when to turn it all on.

As evil as all of you are—I'm pretty villainous myself, in the absolute best way possible.