Dear Nick,

I’m a bit pissed. For somebody that’s so smart and always asking why, the fact that “I’ve just always been this way” is a good enough answer for you to settle for is so telling to how sublimated your ego’s power over you has become. You are its slave. I saw this the first fucking time we hooked up. You have unbelievably low self esteem and compensate for it by playing the part of the all-knowing. You shove all your insecurities into this overblown cerebral narcissism. When you couldn’t stay hard our first time having sex – even though I was sucking away like a fiend – you laughed at yourself, wanting to humiliate yourself and deprecate while I was loving you, and this is the narrative that has continued to play out over the course of our relationship. Your ego can’t handle anything that makes you look bad or insufficient – so you take whatever opportunity you can to be on the winning team again. I’ve seen you lose before, as well and try to regain yourself, and they were probably the saddest states I’ve ever witnessed you in. When your dad came over after I told your mom that you’d planned to kill yourself. I think you felt small and hopeless – powerless over your dad and unbelievably ashamed. The second time was when we went to Vaunca’s and you sliced your forehead open, from being ossified and not letting anyone help you stand. The oblivious look on your face makes me doubt you could feel the deep cut on your temple, but the tears you kept pushing away were a child’s. A kid that’s been pushed around in the school yard and laughed at and pointed at. 

Ugh, Nick! Grow the fuck up! Nobody is perfect, we all have flaws and shortcomings. To allow our structural ego mechanisms to constantly compensate for those shortcomings is going to inevitably be harmful to anyone near by. You’re constantly finding things wrong in the outside world and being critical to make yourself feel more right. Aligning only with the superior and making sure everyone knows WHY it’s so superior. Constantly separating yourself from others to appear above them. But soon you’re going to separate yourself so much that you’ll have nobody else to appear superior to around you. Your ego will tell you that’s fine and you like it that way, but your heart will ache now and again for the company that you were so intent on being above. Your loneliness will take its toll and there’s nothing I can do to change that. You hold the keys, I’ve given you the lock, now you need to find it and look in on all the self hatred putrefying in your psyche. You’re very smart. You place decoy self hatred out for everyone to see and it’s quite convincing at first, but I know a deeper room exists. I know you cram everything that you don’t talk about in there, and let it fester into a putrid fuel for your ego to chug away on. You need to take a good, hard look at that and see how it makes you alienate the people who are closest to you. See how it makes an ego of higher value to you than love. When I say “you’re hurting me” and your ultimate answer is “that’s not going to change,” it means that to stay with you would be masochism. I love myself, shortcomings and all and strive to accept myself as I am. Masochism isn’t my thing anymore. 

Sincerely,

Another Ex

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Brothers

Jon and Zach have the same teeth and smile-cracked eyes

Zachary and Nick have the same neck and smile,

eyes always glint the same across families

if we’re attracted to anything in a mate, it’s the eyes

that first hatched into our view,

a spaceship pervading the strung mobile, spinning spinning

then novelty – tufts – foreheads — Faces!

the new spectacle tucked side by side

by flesh, enclosed in people, the eyes were the real entities, never

“daddy” or “mama!”

parents think themselves mighty proud for their visage to produce a label,

for this so-called understanding to emerge in their smart, smart babies.

But for the baby, it was only ever the eyes they spoke to.

when I’m despondent and depressed, I will not look into eyes,

when I’m confident and self assured, I speak only to eyes

when I tell you that I love you, I tell your eyes, because they are the ones that see me

I may find a blind lover, that they might love my voice, and my touch

but nary a love is started outside of the eyes.

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Everything I Don’t Want People to Know About Me (Part 2)

  1. When I was in high school, I started to pick up weight. I was aware of this, but did nothing. However my mother noticed as well and mentioned her fear that I was becoming fat to one (that’s one of two, mind you) of my super-model sisters. I’m the youngest – and stockiest – of three, and my two older sisters have literally been models. One of them still is, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyhow, super-skinny-Megan came into my room one day and passed my mother’s observation on to me. My immediate reaction was to walk into the bathroom, pull off my big chunky sweater, and stare at my middle. Scrutinize my thighs. Lift and pluck at my buttocks, quite aware of how deflated it was. I observed the skin attaching my chin to my neck and thought that it used to tuck in more. A couple years ago. I recalled in middle school how everyone would gawk at how skinny my underdeveloped body was – and that trauma had already been remedied by my massive breast growth sophomore year of high school. One year ago. It seemed I hadn’t stopped. I poked at my pink, rotund cheeks and hated myself. I thought of all the sweets and carbs I’d stuffed into those cheeks, making me so ugly that it had to be reported to me by my family, so that I wouldn’t have to hear it from a stranger. I thought about how thin and long my sisters were, and how they never seemed to have any trouble keeping the weight off. That was the first time I started to starve myself. I banished my muffin-top upon exiting high school – I never reached over weight, mind you. I simply got chubby, and ergo became the fattest person in my household – without ever being what anyone considered “fat”. Simply approaching the label in a way that reflected the societal fear of gaining weight. After the freshmen 15 hit me in college, I went through another phase of severely restricting my diet. It was hard at first, but eventually I could go weeks with minimal eating. In the summertime, it was worst, because I always felt my body was on display. It was also easiest, in a fucked way, because the heat naturally relaxed my appetite, making the transitions into week-long fasting easier. Oh – and I never acknowledged that what I was doing was anorexia. It was always “control” or making up for a month of eating normally. That fact changed when I started dating a girl who did the same thing. She’d express to me that she hadn’t eaten all day almost gloatfully, and I’m sure she was just barely holding herself back from outright boasting. She was a year younger, and as our relationship continued into her time in college, it became the excuse for why she wasn’t eating. “The food here is gross” “I’m starving on this food plan”. I knew she was doing it to herself, but I kept my mouth shut, because I was doing the same thing. Except I wasn’t talking about it. She and I would smoke weed together, as I entered that phase of my life, and I experienced the munchies for the first time. I would be filled with ravenous abandon… and hate myself the next day. It wasn’t until I started tripping that I came to recognize my starvation habits for what they were – anorexia nervosa. bulimia nervosa. Since those realizations, I started making efforts to eat with health in mind, and to make going to the gym a regular habit. I still sometimes starve myself despite these lifestyle changes.
  2. My digestive tract is extremely sensitive, probably from the abuse it endures. So it isn’t uncommon for me to become flatulant for hours in end. And not the cute skinny girl kinda flatulant. The kind that makes you look around for the fat guy with a chill cheese dog piled high with melted carcinogen cheddar and refried beans, stinking onions that were scooped out of a plastic quart container incubating methane producing bacteria in the heat of summer, guacamole with garlic presiding as the overriding stench,  bacon bits that have cohered into clumps from the accumulated grease and fat that hangs off them – coating each ‘bit’ with a slimy membrane of “flavor,” all topped with some sliced jalapeños (also deep fried) to provide the spark the lights the fire in your anus. And this happens at the drop of a hat for me – I’ll be fine one minute (when I’ve gone a stretch of not eating), then one soy chai latte later, and I’m exuding a never ending stream of those farts that totally feel wet, but you go to bathroom to make sure and wipe your ass and it’s just the usual amount of unclean. I have a little dressing on my salad? Flash-forward an hour, then you’ll come to, neck deep in the algae encrusted muck of a fetid swamp in the heat of August, nestled in a mushroom field, encircled by fertilizer rich cattle, both grazing and heaping into the stagnant air. What little moisture remaining in the bog is summoned by the temperature to emerge on the surface, instantly evaporating into a corporeal breath that continually chokes and gags you. And just when you’re certain you’ll lose consciousness from suffocation, a garbage truck rolls in, wayward from the highway, and brimming high with chaotic, torn garbage bags (probably not glad bags). Upon impact with the boggy earth, the truck is stayed and topples over, burying your head, olfactory senses and all, into the week old crab platter a family of seven dined on, mingling with overcooked – now sour – bean curd and undigested beschemel. These, the demons clawing about in my bowels.

(Will be updated over time, as my self esteem cyclically plummets, naturally exposing me to more fettered insecurities that my consciousness has been harboring… Stay Tuned for #3!)

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Everything I Don’t Want People to Know About Me (Part 1)

Dear Brian,

I got your thoughtful note, in response to my startling revelation on Thursday night. We were going around the circle, sharing things we didn’t want anyone to know about us. Will, who’d suggested the activity to our Spiritual Seeker group, started off with, frankly, a lame ice breaking revelation that he hadn’t brought his dog to the past two sessions, because after it had growled and pounced at me [two sessions ago], he was embarrassed and felt it a poor reflection of his training. Basically, it was an illogical insecurity he harbored that we all instantly stifled with affirmations to how much we loved the mangy beast, and how a dog acting on instinct could never be a bad reflection of his training (Oh, perish the thought!), because dogs are individuals prone to fits of territorial paroxysms, just as humans can be (it’s a spiritual group, remember?). As everyone flooded Will with good vibes and chakra strengthening thought beams, I was incubating within myself a ploy to up the ante; to reveal something meaningful that many could relate to, in order to spur confessions that could get us somewhere – in order to reveal our deepest fears and anxieties that our insecure psyches clutch in crooked fingers, knurling into the fetal position with barbed knuckles divaricating about all that we want to remain secret, as we pull it behind the shadow of our physiognomy, brows and eyelids cleft and cusped, respectively, darting towards any threat to our private let-downs.

I wanted to blow this wide open, and I considered it a challenge to myself, to be the one to breakdown the barrier of the ego. As my mind flooded with ideas of what I could divulge to others and still save face with the contrived personality I had projected over the months, everything from the mild crush I had on *everyone* in the group to suicidal tendencies entered and were quickly chased out of my mind with a flailing dish towel that offered melee whips to my ego at the thought of revelation. The moment my mind flitted to the anorexia I’d combatted most of the summer, I knew it was the one. Easily relatable to anyone that has struggled with self esteem, and yet an equally difficult chink of my armor to be flashing at a bunch of strangers that I read and discuss books with on a monthly basis. I waited for the silence that followed Will’s submission, and staring straight at the table, spoke: “I’ve struggled with anorexia since high school, and still sometimes starve myself.” I waited for the stuttering admissions of self hatred, the staggered promulgations of other self-esteem motivated self-inflicted suffering. I heard silence. My vision burned holes of embarrassment into the table, while boiling the stress induced water that was never too far from my eyes. The craters of embarrassment quickly transformed into fiery portals to hell, as – still without a word spoken – Alyssa extended a box of Kleenex (with lotion) towards me. I waved it off, still waiting for anyone to speak – anything.

“Is there anything we can do to help?”  – except that.

Uh, YEAH. You can fucking admit to me all the fucked up parts of your life, so that I’m not sitting here feeling like the only person that’s ever done shameful things because I didn’t like myself as I was. ALYSSA.

“No, I’ve been really good with it for the past six months”

“Thank you for sharing your struggle, that took a lot of strength for you to say” Kera remembered her mouth, snapping her gaze from the floor to my tinged red eyes.

“No, it felt kinda…good.” Saving face, saving face – see guys it wasn’t that hard. I’m not screaming internally and perching my hopes like a Disney animated turkey vulture on your parallel self hatred. Half smile, to demonstrate how   *good* it feels to unsuture your festering personality in front of strangers so that they can gawk at the odors of decay.

“SO, were you ever bulimic?” —Stefan, not a week out of a mental institution, in his mental downward spiral often resembles a child in both behavior and physicality. Freakily enough, as the boyfriend and housemate of Alyssa, he has basically taken on the identity of Alyssa’s child, as she quickly turns to chastise him for such an insensitive question.

Just somebody go next, I’m tired of all discernments being fixed on my averted gaze, or *suddenly* agazed with the pillow cover at their elbow. Everyone is embarrassed for me. I shouldn’t have said shit. I should have dug up some meaningless obscurity about my life that no one will ACTUALLY care about, so that we can all go on pretending to heal our emotional wounds and drive home feeling *real good about ourselves for conquering our emotional traumas through sharing it with strangers*.

Stefan: “Well, you all know how my life has been for the past week.”

Alyssa strokes her baby on the head with a crook’d neck and soft doe eyes, “Yes, you’ve been dealing with a whole lot of paranoia, babe. But that’s all okay now” She speaks to him as though he were either hard of hearing or an actual infant, long slowly paced wording punctuated with understanding nods.

Stefan gulps down the last of a home-brewed beer out of a Ball mason jar. “Yeep, I’m on Seroquel now, BELCH”

Yeah, fair game Stefan. Fair game. Stefan is probably the winner of the activity, as we’ve all been pretty privy to the shit storm his mental state has been for the past few weeks. Hell, the past few years. He used to be engaged to a cute lil girl, until one day she came home to him rambling about the aliens that were contacting him through his dreams. Fast-forward three years, and it’s only gotten worse. He no longer talks about the aliens, but I suspect it has a lot to do with how many times people have told him it was all in his head. I think if I have faith for anyone, it’s Stef.

Zach spoke. “Some of you who know me,” the man I spent Valentines Day with, frantically copulating in the field that introduces my house, underneath a pine tree that played more of a role in the love making than I’d care to admit, followed by a two hour drive to Cape Henlopen during which I unsuccessfully sucked him off, eventually skinny dipping in the frigid Atlantic, then nakedly cuddling about a fire on the dunes, was hopefully now going to cover my pride with an equally humiliating confession “Know I’m not even on a speaking basis with my parents, and I spend most of my time alone in the woods. So, what I don’t want anyone to know about me is that I am extremely incapable of being vulnerable.”

“Same,” Alyssa tacked onto his “confession” quick as a fly swatter.

*Cue sarcastic applause in my head.

Well, well. That sounds like something you should have said when Will was ensuring everybody would be comfortable participating in this activity. It really isn’t that difficult to say, ‘Hey, you know what Will? All the tearful admissions of internal guilt and shame and fear sounds real nice and all, but I’m just not feeling it right now. Let’s play Buddhist Monopoly instead,’ now is it??

Now that everyone’s gaze was agreeing with Zach’s pussification, I allowed mine to rise from the table and reel about the traitorous faces. They settled on yours Brian, still fixed disquietly on the floor, flooding it with anxiety. If I’d been observing you in any other context, Brian, I would have been certain from your stare that the floor were actual lava which you were frantically, within the statue of your body, deducing the best way to maneuver. I sent accusational darts into your soul for a comfortable 30 seconds, knowing you wouldn’t dare let those brown orbits settle on mine. I would have sent them into your soul for longer, dear Brian, had my lover man not risen from his seat on the floor and squeezed next to me in the armchair, offering a comforting cuddle – most likely out of shame for not having the strength to admit part of his struggle in my presence as I had. As I took in the resumed shameful quiet, the cynic in my head marched about with freedom, careening in threatening circles around my internal victim. The town crier of my soul became the drunkard at the bar who slurs in the faces of Flyers fans when they inevitably lose a game, proclaiming his own team’s victory in boastful insinuations. Oh, so that’s it. I’m the strong one, eh? Of course everyone here’s struggled with self esteem – but the self abasement by admitting it? ‘Nah, we’ll leave that for whoever goes first. Let them be the “strong” one,’ except I’m not strong and your silence proves it. My so-called avowal was probably one of the most gilded confessions I’ve ever had. To be perfectly frank, I wanted to hear some dirt on all of you – EXPECTED to hear some dirt on you. And that’s exactly why my revelation was anything but strong. You can bet to hell that I would have kept my Irish-Catholic-Shame mouth fucking SHUT if I thought you were all gonna pussy out on me.

Will Spoke. “Well, I have something to share,” you already went? “A couple years back – some of you’ll remember this – when I cashed that bad check?” I’m not one of those people, bud. Will nods, eyes meeting recognition in Zach, Alyssa and Stefan’s faces. “Yeah, I actually considered suicide at one point. I was in a really bad place with all the court proceedings and explaining it to my parents and da-da-da.  I was paranoid man, every time I heard the gravel crunch on the driveway, I knew it was the cops. I remember standing in front of the judge and he was just talkin’ at me and talkin’ at me, and I couldn’t understand what I did wrong, you know? And that was just the first court date – I didn’t think I could do it – livin’ with the feeling that at any moment a cop car could just pull up and..   take me away.” Will let his eyes sink to the floor, normally such an emphatic talker. “Yeah, one night I got really close and I ended up callin’ a suicide help line,” his expression, still on the floor changed slightly. “Yeah, they put me on hold – – it was a really fucked up experience” alright Will, I see you. I see you lifting the mood by loosening everyone up with your story-telling ways while simultaneously calling my anorexia ante. You’re not so bad, Will. 

After everyone had a laugh at the prospect of a suicide help line prioritizing their suicides, the atmosphere was less forced, and the group quickly transitioned to what the next meeting should discuss. It was then that I realized that two of the seven members – Kera and you, Brian – would not even trouble themselves with any admission at all. I greedily returned to the rage in my starvation-maintained stomach.

So that’s it? BULLSHIT. I know all of you have struggled with SOMETHING – if not low self esteem. I meant to say what I said as a conduit for you all to express things you’ve been repressing. I’ve never told anyone, including family, about my *struggle* and what would really make me feel better about it is to know that I’m not alone, or for someone to relate THEIR struggles with self esteem and destructive habits. It would have felt far less humiliating to know that you guys have also grappled with that type of shame-induced behavior. I only realize how un-strong I am from seeing that expectation go unfulfilled. It would have been an ACTUAL strong action of myself if I had been able to admit to being so insecure about getting fat to the point that I starved myself without needing others to admit things on par with it, and I didn’t realize that fact until just the opposite happened. I can understand people being uncomfortable with making themselves vulnerable, but I also feel as though that type of insecurity should have been disclosed before anyone else admitted to something, uh idunno, seriously embarrassing like that – In fact, I feel kind of bamboozled that my admission was met with a handful of tentative confessions of inability to actually participate in the activity. A bunch of cop-outs, really. Will described the activity (that he’d done the week before in Men’s group) as a tear jerking time where everyone divulges their deepest secrets – everyone. From that, I thought my divulsion would be the first of seven, and it ended up being the first of two. Ha-ha that’s not to say that I don’t feel different from it – no, sir. Now that I know the world is full of a bunch of pussies, I certainly will not allow other people’s cowardice to make a fucking fool out of myself. And that certainly doesn’t mean that I’m going to keep my secrets inside in the future – should you be so lucky. Nope, I will continue to reveal uncomfortable parts of myself to others – for the same reason of helping them to feel less shame in their own lives – but I’ll do it without the expectation of hearing any of their trauma. And without further ado, here’s everything that I don’t want anyone to know about me:

(continued in Part 2)

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Don’t Leave Me for Dead

We are the divine beings sliding rusty nails into our virgin soles.

The walking awake, table full of bread

Oh God, so empty and broken and already dead

In energy’s absence, an inactive volcano

being eroded by wind and water

Oh God! I just want to feel something!

Give me pain, anger, anything but stillness

One day, I’ll stretch my neck to stay awake

and it will flock off without my body

One day, I’ll find the determination to pluck my marbles from their sockets

my sick eyes searching for connection in my comatose corpse

The answer can’t be not thinking about it – Truth!

Truth leaves my guts for the gulls

I’m torn and motionless, raped by emotion’s kiss

gobbled by the guilty gutter

staring at stones

Do I not have the gumption to drag myself home?

Have I resigned to take residence in the filth and delay?

I’ve forgotten to walk and now I must stay.

I need someone to look at me and know I’m not okay

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The Lover’s Lament

The Father

I see myself made in your image

the blind standing before a house of mirrors
my reflection talking back
and aching before me in whispers
but all you can do is poke sensitive needles through
my eyes, between the blue
that we share, Oh Father who art in heaven,
tell me more of our hallowed ghouls
stop speaking to me of talking and sing! You, mightiest of kings
with honor and stoic gladness,
you pivot on white heels
and all I follow are footsteps
The Lover’s purpose in life is to live lone
to remember the home from which we’re thrown,
divorce the king and keep his throne
The Son
 You, the object from which my self reflects off
 Brilliant drunkard, you slur to me
you sip and you keep raw insides
where they came from.
Your perceptive perspective isn’t something you make
for all the facades you frequently fake;
I’d like to see you in a state of complete wreck
I want to see your tears
balancing on the sallow edge of your cheek
If I could be there when you lose everything
I think I could understand your distance
The Lover’s purpose in life is to live lone
to uncurl the knots from which I’m prone
to strip the body from its bone
The Holy Spirit
 Drawn in by your self destructive tendencies
adrenaline jet stream heart beat echoes
ripples out waves of wishes for the suicide of my self
explaining to gawked earlobes that your genius is madness
stroking my sadness
palms aching to be placed on your knee
and that only.
my heart bleeds and comes undone
and simultaneously seeps into no one
mourning your absence though you’re always here
the living dead in its most reverent pains
I dip into your trauma when you cut the reins
unrestrained
Don’t hold my hand, but Please!
Don’t settle for a good time.
I need the familiar threads of your patterns to weave into mine
you have me all wrapped up around fingers as twine
your brine stained eyes will never not sting mine
So I mind the voice that makes the moan,
removing the melody from the tone
because the Lover’s purpose in life is to live lone.

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When I Have Nothing to Say, My Lips are Sealed

Right on, David Byrne! I don’t know why people feel the need to rattle off the boring nuances of their lives either. The problem seems to be people thinking they have something to say. What in God’s name makes you think that your co-workers give half a shit that your cat’s been puking lately? Like yeah. That sucks. Take him to a goddamn vet and deal with it.

Do you want sympathy? Is that it? You want someone’s jaw to drop a little, as though they’ve just been informed that eleven rodents tumbled out of their ass, and for them to become emotional on your behalf, holding your hand and muttering, “I’m so…sorry,” because what can you say to a travesty like that? I mean clearly there’s nothing they can do to fix any of the trauma that’s been done, all they can do is hold your hand through it, and give you hope for the future.

When I’m shivering in the broken down ghost town of a dining room before the sun’s even risen, the slimy maraschino cherry on top that shatters THIS camel’s vertebrae is when you (starring for us today in the role of Sharon, the waitress) ask me about my day in the cramped nook that contains the only three crusty coffee carafes and more importantly, the only heater; all the while with that cheery sneer wedged between your cheeks while pouring overstewed coffee into a mug with the awkward fifth grader attempts at smiling faces of your children stamped into its pixelated curve.

For future reference, a list of things that I couldn’t give two shits about, but smile and nod through because I see you, annoying coworker, more than the people that I’d like to see:

that you’ve been gaining weight; that you’re trying out this new diet that’s s’posed to be really good; that you just can’t resist the girl scout cookies on your way into the grocery store; that you find it a humorous anecdote that after the girl scout cookie excursion, you bought a bag of chips and ate the whole thing in one sitting; that you’ve been feeling self conscious when you look in the mirror lately and do I think you’ve picked up a noticeable amount of weight around the tummy?; that the children you teach at your day job are stupid fuckers – they’re in fifth grade and only you sound stupid for making fun of them, Sharon; that a friend of yours made a rap channel on youtube but the catch is he doesn’t rap very well; that you bought a new hair dryer and it has a funny smell.

Things I would love to hear you nonchalantly utter over bad coffee at 6am when nobody wants breakfast, much less breakfast in the frigid dining room:

that you stabbed your new husband with a steak knife last night because he thought the filet was a bit more medium well than he wanted, and can you stay at my place for a few nights because the police have already checked your parents’ house; that your nipples and taint are turning chartreuse; that you snorted blow out of a hooker’s ass crack last night, tapped her one the ass and made sweet love to her in the bed of a truck as it flew eighty seven mph down three oh one; that ever since joining that cult you’ve been having memory lapses and woke up at 3am last night/this morning covered in purple paint, cackling over the corpse of that guy that’s running for office; that one of the dumbfuck children you teach math to is an alien from Saturn and he revealed this to you frantically after the other children had left, because it’s your mission to bring his people to glory; that your cat is doing well. I have a heart; that you crowd surfed at a freddie mercury cover band concert buck ass naked and were so drunk that you pissed on the crowd, but they were so drunk that they just kept lawding you about until your bladder ran out; that you got a lift here this morning from a trucker that you met while hitching in Michigan and boy was it a long drive, especially since you rocked a humdinger on ‘im every third town; that you lost your savings, car and stamp collection in an underground russian roulette gambling ring; that you got the car back by agreeing to be the sole sled dog of a middle eastern man the first tuesday of every month – but it’s not that bad, because mostly he’ll just drive you to church and the grocery store for gogurt; that you’re worried about your growing adrenaline-addiction to eating massive amounts of prunes and laxatives before your state trooper husband gives it to you on Saturday nights at 7pm, because last night he tried to get creative and boy would there have been a mess if you didn’t distract him with oral sex; that you’ve finally reached your personal goal of fitting seventeen golf balls up your twat; that since somebody is above taking it in the ass from a man in a Winnie the Pooh costume, you have an opening in your posse of hookers, and would like to offer me the prestigious position of side bitch.

I mean, you don’t need to rattle off one of these verbatim, these are simply some examples from which you can construct more interesting waitress station dialogue. And I won’t walk away mid sentence, should you slip in a parable about the fulfillment you get from teaching the next generation of minimum wage slaves, from time to time. I’m one of those people who believes in second chances.

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