Taylor’s first year at Notre Dame reeked more of paternal disappointment than Russel O’Callaghan’s criminal history. While the staff hated her, the pencil-necked goobers worshipped the ground she walked on. Partly because at the uni parties she left a trail of lip smackered shlongs and Passion Pop perpetuated pleasantries in her wake.
Partying took its toll and she failed harder than Charlie Sheen’s application to donate blood. Accordingly, her father took a stand against his daughter’s academically loathsome peen demonery and gave her an ultimatum. If she manages to turn her transcript into an ocean of C’s, then she can keep her Mini Cooper and go on a #wanderlustful Contiki Tour.
For many days and nights, she couldn’t even. She now understood the cruelty of life, much like the parched plight of a fly faced toddler in one of those hot vulture countries. She managed to get through 2015 by manipulating boys to do work for her in exchange from the hope of quenching their throbbing thirst from her maintained cup. The folly of testosterone.
Late in 2015, tragedy struck the Claremont Quartered Queen. An accounting unit was hard as shit, and the exam counted for an extraordinary amount of her final mark. She couldn’t wing this one. If she didn’t score highly, then she would fail the unit and be forced to drive her sister’s second hand BMW like a fucking peasant. Not on her watch.
She could tell by the way tutor leered at exposed g-strings, that he might have a weakness for the poon. So, she decided to seduce the dinner-for-one cunt in a desperate attempt to give CPR to her Contiki dreams via his willy.
Her plan was a great success. Quicker than her cargo shorted lover could cum, she had a copy of the exam 3 days before she had to take it. The only thing standing in her way of Europe was an administrative disciplinary hearing after rumours of their sexual liaison came to light.
She kinda felt bad for the impending destruction of his academic career. But she was an up and coming Instagram influencer, and he was a bearded scrote who lived with cats. Her decision was easy. Play the victim and throw him under the bus of dick orientated misadventure.
She passed with low flying colours and scraped through like the bottom of Iian Hewitson’s bumper car at a butter & oil festival.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?