By A Comeaux
Dear Rob Kardashian,
You don’t know me and before you came out of your self-induced recluse I didn’t know much of you either. Oh. I remember how you kept Lamar company being the live-in Bro-Homeboy when he was lonely. Kudos for that.
But seeing you surface, losing weight and enjoying the coins so easily hustled by your matriarch and her seedlings was honestly invigorating to watch!
There is no love in strip clubs, Rob. Drake taught us that.
Furthermore, when a woman is scorned she will stop at no cost to burn down the city of her target.
The innerwebs are having a field day with your bruises because they’ve witnessed this one-two punch effortlessly delivered at the expense of the some of their favorites all to the giggles of your sisters. You weren’t watching, you were wearing all black in the privacy of your inheritance and thought her coming to “love” you was karma’s golden gift for your kind heart. Nope.
She saw you as a pawn to knock down every move on the chessboard attainable, within one kingdom.
Consider her past, her previous moves and you will notice she has done bigger and better since her days on the pole. This is no diss to her, but let’s not pretend she ever showed signs of girl-next-door candor. She is a hustler by every definition.
Remember Kim brought her around first, giving her that intoxicating taste of above the world fame? Oh Rob. That body, that smile, tough bought and sold would’ve entrapped the best of them.
Well. Anyhow. Lick your wounds.
Be a great dad and find you a decent woman with a strong shoulder to cry on.
No one will give you mercy because this fox never even changed clothes to swoon you. But tell the truth, it was fun, right?
Write a book about the whirlwind. I know it was epic! I’ll edit for a discount.
I’m A Comeaux writing out of sheer love and compassion for the game.
*Slow claps. Well played everyone.