He doesn’t put emojis after your name in his phone.
His pinky nail is longer than the rest of them.
He wears Beats at inappropriate times. Which is all of the time.
He shoulders you in the throat every time he hugs you.
Which isn’t often.
He eats Oreos all wrong.
And he gives you a side eye when you reach for your second helping of dessert.
He has the same name as any of your living relatives.
He wears camo unironically.
His twitter bio includes “Gamer.”
Your thighs are bigger than his.
He packs a lip and then tries to take you muddin’.
He goes “muddin.'”.
His favorite ice cream is pistachio.
He uses enough hair gel to survive a category six hurricane.
He likes the end pieces of loaves of bread.
He calls his mom by her first name.
“Your mouth doesn’t have its period.”
He wears boxers, not briefs.
He posted more than zero mirror selfies.
He doesn’t own a bowtie.
He has more fantasies about football than he does women.
He calls you “dude.”
You can drink him under a table. And you have.
He asks you to make him a sandwich. I don’t care if he’s kidding.
He at any point has started a sentence with “I’m not racist, but…”
He orders a vodka soda. For himself.
He refers to breasts as “jugs.”
He doesn’t know all the words to “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.”
He has been convinced that girls don’t poop.
His idea of semi-formal is a clean pair of pants.
He always has something to smoke tucked behind his ear.
He doesn’t even shed a tear at the end of
Marley and Me. You can hear his car from a half mile away.
You can smell his car from a half mile away.
You can see his car from a half mile away.
He retweets @SexualGifs.
He’s a two pump chump.
“You came right?”
He has a graveyard of plastic vodka handles lining the top of his kitchen cabinets.
He shows off his vape tricks.
“You’re being crazy.”
The only goals he has in life are the ones scored by his favorite team.
If he doesn’t eat pussy, then he is one.
He’s a GDI.
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