Caterwauling

Do you ever see a friend gushing over his betrothed online and want to say omg you are so getting played and I can look at that person with my third eye and know what a gold-digger they are and to run not walk away before you can’t?!?!

I take no responsibility for this post after tonight. But man, I think you picked wrong. I can see in their eyes that they are going to fuck you over. 

And they aren’t as cute as you think, either. Sorry. There, I said it. 

I know they won’t see this. And I’m not trying to shit-stir. I just can’t bear to see another person think they found their happiness when even Stevie Wonder can see through the desperation of people who don’t want to be alone anymore. 

I only hope that if I decide to settle, my real friends will stand up and say something. Or maybe they will be like me right now and understand the need to “couple” at a time when it seems like the one thing otherwise-smart people just can’t seem to master. 

I happen to be friends with an amazing playwright. She wrote that today, in the broader context of a true story. 

I made me feel better about some “wasted love” that haunts me sometimes. 

Love is beautiful because it’s given, as she wrote. And that it is kept. 

That got me to thinking. Love gets received, too. And in the best-case scenario, returned. 

But all of the above criteria don’t have to be met to see the beauty of its existence in the first place. No matter how ephemeral. Because, regardless of how long it exists, isn’t everything?

Thank you, TWC.

Since there’s no reasoning with upstairs, I’ve taken to screaming “Yo, yo motherfucker” or “Shut up, bitch” or “Go to bed” through the vents. Now Thundercunt is blasting her shitty music after her ugly ass rattled the ceiling all night. 

I genuinely have never hated anyone in my life the way I hate that family. And I got a nice stack of real estate newspapers I’m about to drop like a mic on her doorstep.