To the girls screaming at me on my walk home.
I am wearing headphones. Yet, impossibly, I can hear you.
No, my ankles are not cold. No, I’m not “fucking drunk-assing” my way to another bar. I’m sorry you think the way I walk is “fucking pretentious.” And no, I’m not “that bitch” nor am I “that other bitch” that you think you might know.
Oh and sorry I “fucking freaked you the fuck out” when I turned around and stared at you until you passed me. I thought, and my apologies of course, that I knew you. You were, after all, attempting to engage me in conversation for five minutes.
Ok so I respect your art…but here’s the thing…
You have a camera. You might want to take pictures of things. I get that.
Q:I love you and your fuckin face and your fuckin cat like goddamn
Uggghhh come to Maine and just live with me in my apartment for a week and let’s be drunk with my cat together for like the whole week
Forgive my rant but-
To my darling customers,
I’m serving you an afternoon munch or refreshing treat. I am paid for this service. I have not perfected my frozen yogurt swirl so that you may comment on my weight/body/physical fitness.
Yes I do eat.
Your neighborhood food-service slave.