Jasmine finally dropped her man like he was a UFC fan with a staring problem. Like an Arts degree, she had wasted 3 years on something that offered her no future, and now it was time to let her hair down. Yeh the fucking girls.

Dealing with life after love called for some reinvention. So she started brewing her own Kombucha, she dusted off the old yoga mat, and most importantly she reconnected with her besties.

See, while she was with old meth-lungs McGee, she tended to hang out with his cretinous friends. Her mates were thrilled when she started bantering in the group-chat and even committed to every social event they planned.

At her first major event since the break-up, the girls wooo’d to the sound of Rosé-filled glasses clinking as they shat on masculinity like Clementine Ford using an old Zoo magazine as toilet paper.

“Who needs a man when I’ve got my 10s woooooooooo”. She made a promise to the group that she was going to dodge sausage like a vegan at Bunnings.

Well, that strong independent woman shit lasted about 4 hours, when she found herself looking lustfully into the first guy who paid her a half-compliment, “you remind me of a chick I fucked”. O Cunteo! Wherefore art thou Cunteo.

Almost immediately, she ditched her friends and danced with her slurring lothario until realising he was cut from the same jizz-cloth as her last loser boyfie, “let’s go to a cubicle baby”. No dice, loser, nobody puts baby in the piss covered corner.

She continued to involve herself with her friends for at least a few weeks. That was until she realised she was as codependent as a joint Facebook account and downloaded Bumble.

Over the next month of her life, she cut through more scum than a bottle of Shower Power. Almost every guy she met online put in as much effort as a Nigerian internet scammer and disappeared as soon as she flushed the toilet of commitment.

Except for one. One turd that clung on and didn’t disappear into the murky sewerage of online dating. He’d shown he could stick around, and although not entirely pleasant, he was still there for her.

Her mates were less enthusiastic about the news, “he sounds a lot like the others Jassy”. So just like a Tour de France rider with a fresh batch of human growth hormone, so began the same familiar cycle.

Sort your shit out Jasmine.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?

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