It just occurs to me that I’m super pissed at you. Where the hell are you? You KNOW I hate dating, and yet you’re forcing me to mine through all these wastrels. I don’t know where you are, but to be honest, I think you’re being pretty lame.

What am I supposed to do with all these dishes in the sink? You know house work sets off my back and also that I generally hate to move.

How am I supposed to learn about any new music if you don’t introduce me to it? You know my taste in music sucks. And you know I get stuck. I’ve been listening to Frank Ocean for years now!  And do you know how strange I look desk dancing to Two Chainz at the office? Baby, upgrade me.

Who’s going to argue with me about changes to the DSM and be an unwilling recipient of my rants and rage about various and sundry political and policy  issues and tell me to put my money where my mouth is?

I’m waiting on you fool!

What are you getting out of it anyway? Who’s gonna tell you to go to the damn doctor dammit and I’m not gonna tell you again? Who’s gonna sit next to you when grammy passes?

Have you SEEN me dance? You kidding?!

Who’s gonna tell you of COURSE you can do that crazy thing you don’t think you can do and here’s how and I’ll help?

Who’s gonna love you like me?

After you read this I’m gonna make an angry face and then punch you in the belly and then tickle you and then refuse to let you tickle me back and then make that thing we saw on Jacques Pépin.

Get over here already.



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