I swear to God, Zevran.
Every fucking day, I tell you to make me cookies. And not one single fucking time have you made them for me. I mean, what the fuck. The recipe is right there, sitting on the windowsill with the rest of the fucking cards from Baking 220. How fucking lazy are you?
What, you can't fucking read? It's fucking numbers, you ballsless hairpile. And don't fucking meow at me that you don't have opposable fucking thumbs. Fuck's sake, Beethoven couldn't fucking hear and he still put out the 9th; the least you could fucking do is learn how to use a measuring cup. And a stand mixer. And a disher.
Just because you play fetch and climb onto my chest to purr and paw at my face all adorable-like doesn't mean you're off the hook for making me cookies, you little dickbeef. Step up your game or we're going to have fucking words.
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