Hollaback Boy

I hate watching those girls touch my redhead up every night, their filthy hands wandering up and up and up to regions only meant for me. He knows how angry it makes me and encourages them, moving forward to gain more of the touches, even tilting his head back in mock pleasure, grinning at me from beneath his crimson hair. I let out a battle cry, lost behind a veil of purring guitars, but the girls get the message, shudder beneath the glare they receive as I wrap my arm around his broad shoulder.

Those fucking bitches don’t know what they’re dealing with.