They had settled into the couch, pressed down by the phat beats coming from their stereo. Eminem, mind you.
Enough time had been wasted arguing about whether or not TBB should be put in the hoe box. For the time being, at least. After regrouping, they decided to head upstairs for a bit more quality time and yelling, making sure to open their window so that the other half of the the apartment complex could get in on their melodrama. And by melodrama, I mean real human pathos. Or, do I? One can never be too sure these day…
Regardless, realizing that neither TBB nor Austin would back down from the respective titles of TheBaddestBitch and Master Douché, they decided to call it quits. The fighters each returned to their corners, each a bit more defeated than usual; however, that can most likely be attributed to the fact that the Bud Light was gone, forcing them to switch instead to Natty Lite, a compromise more unbearable than deciding to wear a Mossy Oak shirt than the most fashionable Affliction shirt to the latest MMA match.
Their sleeping situation has yet to be determined. Given Austin’s past sexual conquests, however, it probably escalated in awkward groping and devolved into tears as he dealt with certain issues, primarily the lack of a new Drake album. His only consolation comes from TBB, the bulwark of emotional support in that transitory relationship.
Does love conquer all? Does the Nun’s necklace hold true, Omne vincit amore? We shall see what we shall see.