My wife doesn't understand me.
Well, that's what you get for ordering a wife from Russia. If you had just shopped around, you probably could've bought a wife who speaks English.
What can I say? I'm a compulsive shopper. But enough about me. Let's talk about you. And your hot, nineteen-year-old vagina.
Okay. First off, my vagina's name is Sally.
My mother's name is Sally, so this is already getting pretty creepy, but go on.
Second, my vagina is tight. But not so tight that you'd mistake it for my anus, which is itself not very tight.
I'm sure they make an attractive couple.
Thirdly, once a month, my vagina spews wads of menstrual waste all over my clean panties and bed sheets.
That must be a bitch to clean up.
Oh, I don't clean it. I take the soiled sheets, frame them, and sell them to gullible Art Connoisseurs.
What? Are they blind and retarded? Who the fuck would pay money for uterus lining covered bedspreads?
What Shitheads. But also, I'll take five of them. Not because I'm a compulsive shopper, but because I'm a disgusting pervert.