Honestly, fellas, how much do you hate a dumpy older woman who uses the word Aw concerning your heartfelt expressive emotion?
Aw sucks my asshole after suicide sprints with Mineral Ice creeping up my balls.
Aw sucks limp dick around varicose veins with the lights on again.
Aw, sucks, putrid pussy. Think Stormy Daniels cleaning tuna cans out of her snatch.
Aw sucks the cocaine cobwebs out of Zelensky’s nose on Good Friday.
Aw sucks worse than watching the floral print dry out Jill Biden’s long-lost sex appeal of yesteryear, small-town townie ho fishnet stockings on or not.
Aw, it makes the do-good meaning behind the cancel hate hashtag yucking up my LinkedIn feed inconceivable.
Aw is a dumb fuck default for an emotionally retarded expressionist who speaks in empty platitudes like do what you love because that option in Corporate America is so readily available on tap, you blah breathed hack for hire.
Aw, is code for thanks but no thanks for the compliment faggot.
Aw, that means you’re desperate for compliments today, aren’t you, Lord Bryon light in the loafer light?
Aw is a passive-aggressive alternative to the unverbalized directive; get a fucking life, alright, I’m not even a 5/.9 by old school My Space standards. You still put woman on a pedestal as if your mother cares about your love life outside of pushing a premature marriage to conceal your default faggot pushover position.
Aw screams it’s springtime for fruitcakes.
And I’m old enough to be your mother and past my fag hag years prime, thanks.
Springtime For Fruitcakes, aw sucks lives, Challah!
Thank you very much.