goddamnit, bubble tea.

holy shit, bubble tea, i'm not fucking talking to you. i'm not even facing in your direction, and you're asking "what? what'd you say?" as though it pertains to you. well, guess what? it doesn't.

shut it, deviled eggs.

if you don't have anything more interesting to ask than "how's work going?", don't ask anything at all. i've known you for almost a year. the fact that we still haven't passed the small-talk stage is sickening. silence is golden, deviled eggs.

dress your age, breakfast buffet.

holy mother of god, breakfast buffet. do you have mirrors in your house? do you know how to use a mirror? whoever told you that the outfit you're wearing at your age is a good idea was either blind or lied to your fucking face. your adult diapers are showing. fuck.

get away from me, steamed pork bun.

can you close your fucking mouth when you have food in it? and can you stop with the lip smacking? like, why does you eating have to be in stereo? your gaping mouth is grossing me out and i can't handle you. if i wanted to know what you ordered, i would've asked.

i'm not your friend or ally, trader joe's garlic mashed potatoes.

giving everyone dirty looks is not going to make this line go faster. it's a line. that means there are people waiting. patience is a virtue, you motherfucker.

what have you done for me lately, cracker jack?

can you clean up your fucking dishes? do i look like a maid? whoever raised you needs to be taken outside and beaten and then you need to be taken outside and left outside because you're a pig.

you're a jackass, ice cream sundae.

i know why people aren't laughing at your jokes. it's not because they don't get it. it's because you're an idiot and aren't funny. so maybe you should just stop, ice cream sundae.

shut up, kit kat.

we're at a live show, kit kat. when you yell out loud and "joke around" with the performers, they can hear you, and so can everyone in the entire audience. and trust, you're not as funny as you think you are. shut up and sit down.

you have a lot of nerve, jell-o chocolate pudding.

you stupid tweaker, with your shady friends and your shady face and your shady attitude. give me back my phone, thief.

you're a misogynist, astronaut ice cream.

i know more about you than i know about myself, and that's not a good thing. shut up about yourself. at least for one minute. and you can't just make up words and expect people to know them. nobody knows them. and furthermore, nobody cares.

erin go eff yourself, corned beef and cabbage.

clearly you're not going home with anybody tonight because you're too busy standing here telling me about how you're going home with everybody tonight. nice game, loser.

au revoir, french dip sandwich.

hi, speak up. i can't hear you when you whisper, all breathy and stupid, from 25 feet away. oh god, you know what? never mind. i don't even care what it is you have to say. no seriously. i don't even care.

no wonder you're single, chicken fingers.

you fucking creeper. "having boobs" is not a good enough reason to sit and stare. trust me, they're not interested. and neither are the girls they're attached to.

you're a mess, egg mcmuffin.

oh em gee, stop crying so much. i'm serious. there are bigger problems in the world, and all you're doing is making me hate your face off. so stop it.

who do you think you are, cheesecake?

you're dead to me. completely dead.

what's with the tweed jacket, dunkin' donuts?

great, so you grew up on the east coast and went to an all-boys boarding school. fine, so you went to a small liberal arts college and go leaf peeping, whatever the fuck that is, every chance you get. so you wear wool scarves and collared shirts and row crew and trade stocks. you live in san francisco now. get over yourself, donuts.

hurry up, french toast.

oh my god, are we in slow motion? the light telling you you're allowed to cross the street has been blinking for like, two years, and you're still shuffling along so slowly, you're practically going backwards. go already. and stop waving your hand frantically at the cars waiting for you, telling them to stop for you like they don't see you. trust. they see you.

fo shiz, hamantashen.

pull your pants up and take that stupid hat off. i'm not sure why you're wearing a t-shirt that's three sizes too big, but it probably has something to do with your "thug life." you're a jewish kid from the peninsula, hamantashen. you wouldn't know thug life if it shot you in your "grill" with its "piece."

go eff yourself, mcdonald's apple pie.

stop taking so long to call me back when the only reason i'm calling you is because you called me first. that's called telephone etiquette. leaving me hanging for a week is called being a prick.

get a job, peanut butter brownie.

"finding yourself" is something you do when you're 19. when you're still "finding yourself" and you're 40...and you're still living with your mother, it's just pathetic. put the remote down, take a shower, and go make a living, you jerkoff. removing the imprint your ass has made in the sofa is going to come out of your first paycheck.

leave me alone, blueberry pie.

so we're standing next to each other in line at the grocery store. that doesn't make me your buddy. stop trying to engage me in banter. stop thinking of me as your ally. yes, i agree, these avocados are expensive. but i don't want to talk with you about it. i don't even know you.

stop looking at yourself in the mirror, 7-layer dip.

nobody cares about how many girls you've been with, how many beers you can drink, or how much money you make. your sports car was handed down to you from your mom, and you borrow money from your grandma to make your cell phone payments. you're not cool and mysterious. you're a poser. and everyone (i'm serious, everyone) knows it.

i'm so grossed out, butterfinger.

if you unbutton one more button on that shirt, my eyes are going to burn out of my head and fall out of my face onto the sidewalk. then i'll have to sue you. we're in public and you're disgusting. nobody wants to see chest hair down to your beer belly, you slimeball.