Hello everybody. I am in love with a lot of people. A LOT of people. One of them, the main one of them, is Bruke Lauren Skousen. And this is an ode to Bruke.
A, I miss bruke. She is not coming back to school and I am not going to stop crying. B, I have wanted to marry brooke ever since she was brooketha. She reminded me of my sister, so I laid on her. And it has been a fairy tale ever since. Our future plans will be finalized this summer, while she is NOT WITH ME. C, Bruk is the best fluffy whore I could ask for. She watches every good show. She goes to dances and gets as sweaty as she possibly can. She was a white leopard for Halloween. She then wore her white leopard ears around Rexburg with me. She teased my hair for the first time. She can walk up to a random person, dance in their face for five minutes, and not crack a smile. She watched me walk for the first time, for the second time. We run toward each other then I jump on her. She lived through the weirdest/funniest semester of all time with me. She lets me sit on her shoulders and transform into a giant, two person, dancing robot. She went to Africa with all the little birdies and the little monkeys. She listens to my rap music even though she doesnt like it. While Alex is out having a life, she walks around the parking lot scaring people with me. Her hair is red and fluffy and perfect. She is a stripper. When I send her people’s hilarious statuses she has already seen them and knows exactly who I am talking about. She will run away from Alex’s truck with me, in negative 10 degrees, in animal ears, hide in allies and crevices, until we have peed our pants several times. She is a notable stalker and imaginary wedding planner. She may even be a better stalker than i. Oh, she is a professional interpretive dancer. And I LOVE HER. The list could go on for the rest of our lives together. How sweet. D, Every red head I see makes me think of bruke. Or my sister. E, my computer is telling me that bruke, bruk, brooketha, and brooke are all spelled wrong. Whats happening.
A, I miss bruke. She is not coming back to school and I am not going to stop crying. B, I have wanted to marry brooke ever since she was brooketha. She reminded me of my sister, so I laid on her. And it has been a fairy tale ever since. Our future plans will be finalized this summer, while she is NOT WITH ME. C, Bruk is the best fluffy whore I could ask for. She watches every good show. She goes to dances and gets as sweaty as she possibly can. She was a white leopard for Halloween. She then wore her white leopard ears around Rexburg with me. She teased my hair for the first time. She can walk up to a random person, dance in their face for five minutes, and not crack a smile. She watched me walk for the first time, for the second time. We run toward each other then I jump on her. She lived through the weirdest/funniest semester of all time with me. She lets me sit on her shoulders and transform into a giant, two person, dancing robot. She went to Africa with all the little birdies and the little monkeys. She listens to my rap music even though she doesnt like it. While Alex is out having a life, she walks around the parking lot scaring people with me. Her hair is red and fluffy and perfect. She is a stripper. When I send her people’s hilarious statuses she has already seen them and knows exactly who I am talking about. She will run away from Alex’s truck with me, in negative 10 degrees, in animal ears, hide in allies and crevices, until we have peed our pants several times. She is a notable stalker and imaginary wedding planner. She may even be a better stalker than i. Oh, she is a professional interpretive dancer. And I LOVE HER. The list could go on for the rest of our lives together. How sweet. D, Every red head I see makes me think of bruke. Or my sister. E, my computer is telling me that bruke, bruk, brooketha, and brooke are all spelled wrong. Whats happening.
yay.
bruke in Africa, doing something unnatural.
the infamous.
This is Bruke. 
This is Bruke.
field of a million brukes.
No comments:
Post a Comment