By Nikki Hollis, brunette with B-cups you said were ‘perfect’
WELL. You moved on fast. 16 months after we split and you’re showing off your new tart on your Instagram stories, knowing I’d see it all using my burner account.
Flaunting her big, jiggly jugs right under everyone’s nose. You’ve really shown yourself up here. I’m embarrassed for you.
I expected more of you, Jason. You pretended to be sophisticated, the kind of man who goes to art galleries out of choice and reads books not about murders. How does that jibe with your newly-revealed preference for large melons?
It seems you’re not man enough to handle a real woman with modest bosoms, her own opinions and emotions and the confidence to phone you at 3am to express them.
You’ve outed yourself as a shallow creep, ruled by the demands of your undersized member, who does not see women as individuals but only as shiny hair, pouty lips and what even I must admit is a cracking pair.
Her claims to have gone to Oxford are risible. Her only qualifications are a pair of massive mammaries as fake as her LinkedIn profile. You’re ‘in love’ with two bags of silicon – honestly, just paint a face on a fleshlight and be done with it, Jase.
Why pretend to be a liberal aesthete when you’ve got the sexual predilections of a cab driver? Of a Sun reader? Of an EDL rioter with a ‘free Tommy Robinson’ banner? Because that’s what you’ve outed yourself as with your tawdry working-class big tit obsession.
You’ll get bored of humungous honkers and all-exclusives in Benidorm eventually. No man can truly enjoy those for long. Enjoy your blow-up sex doll, Sophie Natalia Anna Rodriguez of 28 Church Drive, for now. It won’t last.
But I’ll never forgive you for stealing my youth. Well, eight months of it.