Hi there, so excited you’re talking to me. I’m Rebecca Plump. But people call me Bekky. Just joking, people don’t call me. At all. I keep posting group photos. My profile photo is a group photo. My cover photo is a group photo. Every photo in my timeline is a group photo. Yes, that means I’m the ugly one in every photo, trying to hide myself amongst my better looking friends. I have a mutually beneficial symbiotic relationship with my hot friends. They let me hang out with them because I make them look better, and I want to hang out with them because they attract guys and hopefully a guy for me. Oh and I don’t mean a guy who is also a 2 out of 10, I mean a guy who is a rich Norwegian male model. I won’t accept anything less because my friends won’t accept anything less. I think I’m just as hot as they are. They keep telling me that I’m “totes gorge” and “literally, so pretty” which artificially inflates my ego. If any sucker tries to talk to my hot friends, I will cockblock them so hard they’ll be in traction for 6 months and wont ever be able to nod again. I’ll stand between my friend and them and announce out loud to everyone “he’s only talking to you because he wants to have sex with you!” like the world’s most obvious but profound realisation. It will throw the guy off because he’s now in a total quandary.  He cant tell me I’m a fat sad cunt because it’ll make my hot friend turn on him, but he also can’t deny it because then he’s saying my friend isn’t fuckable. Eat shit!My announcement will make my hot female friend hate the guy, because since childhood she has been warned about men who “just want to use her for her body” even though her body is the only thing anyone values. Oddly, even though all her time and money is spent on making herself more and more attractive, she’ll still be “grossed out” that a male wants to have sex with her. It’s like opening a cafe then telling anyone who orders a coffee to “fuck off you creep, it’s not all about coffee, you just want to use me for my coffee, well you can fuck off, I don’t even sell coffee and even if I did I wouldn’t sell it to a sick fuck like you!”. After being ignored by fifty to a hundred men I will complain to my friends that “this place is gross” or that “I’m tired” or some other made up complaint designed to get me attention because no is paying me any attention.If my friends want to dance I will cause a scene, either by pretending to be paralytic drunk or maybe I’ll just start crying about my grandmother who has been dead for ten years but the date today reminds me of a calendar that she gave me that also had dates on it, oh god, please I need my best friends to take me home now. Secretly I’m a weird emotional drunk and I’m agitated that my feet hurt because I’m fat and wear dumb shoes. If my friends don’t take me home immediately and ignore me because I do this every weekend, then I’ll just have to spend the rest of the night standing at the bar watching all of my friends being hit on by a constant procession of men while I sink deeper into a drunk, depressive state. I hate watching them ‘dance’. And by “watching them dance” I mean, watching horny guys dryly gang rape them through fabric in a huge-retarded-eagle-circle-jerk-bukakke-moshpit.I can’t go and sit down because I fear I might miss out on something. So I guess I’ll just stand here awkwardly sipping the melted ice out of my the bottom of my drink for the next hour and watch from the sidelines.  My feet hurt. My feet hurt because my giant body that doesn’t do any exercise is trying to balance precariously on top of these tiny ski ramp heels strapped with dental floss to my inflamed feet. My foot looks like a loaf of bread being baked inside a hair net. It’s midnight now and I’m pretty sure all the guys here are so drunk, and confident that they’ll pick up a 10, that I’ve become an invisible blur to them like a predator squatting high in a jungle tree wearing an activated cloaking device. I’m drunk too and it’s so hot in here that my sweaty makeup looks like a Pro Hart painting. My uncomfortable frumpy force field is ensuring no one comes near me or says anything to me all night. No one is even close enough to knock into me and spill their drink on me to start a conversation. I wish a fight would break out so I could walk in the middle of it and get hit in the face. That would mean a man has touched me and hopefully a crowd of people would feel sorry for me and ask me a question about whether I am “alright”. Then I could begin downloading all my stories about being bullied in primary school about my curly hair. Wait a minute. Holy shit. A guy is walking towards me. What do I do? Stay calm. Oh god no….. he just asked “are any of your friends are single”. I’m going to the toilets to cry-vom. I’m thirsty. I’ve spent $190 on drinks. Meanwhile my friends have been paid over $3000 to take drinks from some of these guys. One guy gave one of my hot friends his wallet and his watch. One of my friends needed to go to the bathroom and a guy offered his mouth as a toilet. Another guy laid on the floor to let one of my friends dance on him. One of my friends dropped her glass and a guy offered to buy her a Dan Murphys and he cleaned up the broken glass with his chest by doing the worm before passing out from blood loss. This other guy literally gave his left testicle to talk to one of my friends. He smashed his iPhone and used the sharp edge of the aluminium case to castrate himself and offered his ball to her in a shot glass. She told him she has a boyfriend but she doesn’t. I had an imaginary boyfriend but it turns out he was only with me to try to sleep with my hot friends. I’m going to do a ghostie and see if anyone notices I’ve gone home, which they wont. Fuck it I’m going to get a kebab and pretend it’s a guy who picked me up in the club and deep throat it in a taxi on the way home

Hi there, so excited you’re talking to me. I’m Rebecca Plump. But people call me Bekky. Just joking, people don’t call me. At all. I keep posting group photos. My profile photo is a group photo. My cover photo is a group photo. Every photo in my timeline is a group photo. Yes, that means I’m the ugly one in every photo, trying to hide myself amongst my better looking friends. 

I have a mutually beneficial symbiotic relationship with my hot friends. They let me hang out with them because I make them look better, and I want to hang out with them because they attract guys and hopefully a guy for me. Oh and I don’t mean a guy who is also a 2 out of 10, I mean a guy who is a rich Norwegian male model. I won’t accept anything less because my friends won’t accept anything less. I think I’m just as hot as they are. They keep telling me that I’m “totes gorge” and “literally, so pretty” which artificially inflates my ego. 

If any sucker tries to talk to my hot friends, I will cockblock them so hard they’ll be in traction for 6 months and wont ever be able to nod again. I’ll stand between my friend and them and announce out loud to everyone “he’s only talking to you because he wants to have sex with you!” like the world’s most obvious but profound realisation. It will throw the guy off because he’s now in a total quandary.  He cant tell me I’m a fat sad cunt because it’ll make my hot friend turn on him, but he also can’t deny it because then he’s saying my friend isn’t fuckable. Eat shit!

My announcement will make my hot female friend hate the guy, because since childhood she has been warned about men who “just want to use her for her body” even though her body is the only thing anyone values. Oddly, even though all her time and money is spent on making herself more and more attractive, she’ll still be “grossed out” that a male wants to have sex with her. It’s like opening a cafe then telling anyone who orders a coffee to “fuck off you creep, it’s not all about coffee, you just want to use me for my coffee, well you can fuck off, I don’t even sell coffee and even if I did I wouldn’t sell it to a sick fuck like you!”.

After being ignored by fifty to a hundred men I will complain to my friends that “this place is gross” or that “I’m tired” or some other made up complaint designed to get me attention because no is paying me any attention.

If my friends want to dance I will cause a scene, either by pretending to be paralytic drunk or maybe I’ll just start crying about my grandmother who has been dead for ten years but the date today reminds me of a calendar that she gave me that also had dates on it, oh god, please I need my best friends to take me home now. Secretly I’m a weird emotional drunk and I’m agitated that my feet hurt because I’m fat and wear dumb shoes.

If my friends don’t take me home immediately and ignore me because I do this every weekend, then I’ll just have to spend the rest of the night standing at the bar watching all of my friends being hit on by a constant procession of men while I sink deeper into a drunk, depressive state. I hate watching them ‘dance’. And by “watching them dance” I mean, watching horny guys dryly gang rape them through fabric in a huge-retarded-eagle-circle-jerk-bukakke-moshpit.

I can’t go and sit down because I fear I might miss out on something. So I guess I’ll just stand here awkwardly sipping the melted ice out of my the bottom of my drink for the next hour and watch from the sidelines.  My feet hurt. My feet hurt because my giant body that doesn’t do any exercise is trying to balance precariously on top of these tiny ski ramp heels strapped with dental floss to my inflamed feet. My foot looks like a loaf of bread being baked inside a hair net. It’s midnight now and I’m pretty sure all the guys here are so drunk, and confident that they’ll pick up a 10, that I’ve become an invisible blur to them like a predator squatting high in a jungle tree wearing an activated cloaking device. I’m drunk too and it’s so hot in here that my sweaty makeup looks like a Pro Hart painting. My uncomfortable frumpy force field is ensuring no one comes near me or says anything to me all night. No one is even close enough to knock into me and spill their drink on me to start a conversation. I wish a fight would break out so I could walk in the middle of it and get hit in the face. That would mean a man has touched me and hopefully a crowd of people would feel sorry for me and ask me a question about whether I am “alright”. Then I could begin downloading all my stories about being bullied in primary school about my curly hair. Wait a minute. Holy shit. A guy is walking towards me. What do I do? Stay calm. Oh god no….. he just asked “are any of your friends are single”. I’m going to the toilets to cry-vom. 

I’m thirsty. I’ve spent $190 on drinks. Meanwhile my friends have been paid over $3000 to take drinks from some of these guys. One guy gave one of my hot friends his wallet and his watch. One of my friends needed to go to the bathroom and a guy offered his mouth as a toilet. Another guy laid on the floor to let one of my friends dance on him. One of my friends dropped her glass and a guy offered to buy her a Dan Murphys and he cleaned up the broken glass with his chest by doing the worm before passing out from blood loss. This other guy literally gave his left testicle to talk to one of my friends. He smashed his iPhone and used the sharp edge of the aluminium case to castrate himself and offered his ball to her in a shot glass. She told him she has a boyfriend but she doesn’t. I had an imaginary boyfriend but it turns out he was only with me to try to sleep with my hot friends. I’m going to do a ghostie and see if anyone notices I’ve gone home, which they wont. Fuck it I’m going to get a kebab and pretend it’s a guy who picked me up in the club and deep throat it in a taxi on the way home