I didn’t eat people. Just men. First of all, I’d like to set the record straight. I wasn’t a cannibal, ʼkay?
I didn’t eat people. Just men. I ate their hearts out before they ever saw me coming. Figuratively, of course. Most of the time.
Sometimes a girl had to do what a girl had to do. And sometimes what I had to do was fry those suckers up with a little bit of buttermilk and enough shortening to give ya coronary.
I wouldn’t ever apologize for it.
Which was something else you should know about me. I was unapologetic. Then again, so was he. Else the hotshot with a blade bigger than his d*ck wouldn’t have barged his way into my little apartment without so much as a “my bad, sorry for disturbing you, ma’am.”
And I wouldn’t have been forced to tie him to a chair and teach him some manners. But here we are, ain’t we?
Just a sweet little Southern girl and the big bad pickle-diddler who thought he was about to get his rocks off.
Guess it wasn’t his lucky day. Sure was mine, though.
