“Fuck! Goddammit! Motherfuckingsonofabitch!”
I’m definitely losing those. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Jesus.
All ten of my pretty little digits sat paralyzed between the slats of the garage door.
“Jesus! Oh fuck, it hurts.”
If you had told me I’d be here, writing about my broken paws nine months later, I’d have laughed you out of my basement. I would’ve been wrong. As usual.
“I thought you had a disease.”
“M says you can tell a lot about overall health by a person’s nails. I thought you were sick, really sick.”
“You didn’t think to ask?”
Apparently asking questions isn’t a thing anymore. It’s way too invasive. I mean, you could potentially get to know the other person. You might even run into the deep seated emotional reason they’re afraid of clowns or worse, why they feel the need to tie you up before fucking you. Or why their nail beds look like the roller coaster at Knott’s Berry Farm.
Instead, we are content to know just enough to ride in bareback, but nothing past their middle name. Or what they actually do for a living. Or why they don’t eat blue food. We are so conditioned to adhere to this ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ bullshit that we are completely confident making assumptions based on little to no factual evidence in order to validate our existing bias.
Sleeves is judgy, super fucking judgy. I need to get him in front of a mirror just so he can see what his face does when his eyes recognize something unpleasant. I guarantee he’ll pay better attention once he sees what we see. Until then, I’ll continue to point out his every quirk and he’ll be gone within the week. Guaranteed.
He hates me.
Once again, we can’t seem to communicate for shit and I’m left wondering what the fuck just happened.
I’ve had quite a bit more time on my hands lately and I’ve made the super adult decision to spen a lot of it on a barstool. This particular establishment is exactly seven minutes and twenty three seconds away from Sleeves’ house, C works there occasionally, and over the last few months, I’ve made new friends. I like it there.
Here we go.
As he sipped Satan’s Juicebox, I lamented my frustration regarding my horrible spending habits.
“Yeah, but you don’t buy your own drinks.”
“I most certainly do.”
“No, you don’t. I know I’ve bought you drinks before. Straightedge bought you drinks the other night.”
Vagina or not, I pay for my own shit. I’ve always felt weird accepting liquor knowing full well I can afford it and the last thing I need is to be obligated to a stranger. No.
Straightedge is a mutual friend with a fascinating story. A few nights ago, I was picking his brain over booze and pasta when Sleeves arrived.
“I bought dinner. Straightedge bought the drinks. We had an arrangement.”
“Well, I know I have.”
We’ve shared many meals together, but we have only been on one, yes one outing which could be construed as a date. He bought oysters. Sleeves bought the oysters and a chicken caesar salad the night he friend zoned me. Anything beyond that was unbeknownst to me until it was too late after bribing the bartender to combine our tabs.
“Yes. I have allowed you to purchase drinks roughly four times in as many months. We’re fucking.”
It didn’t start to come together until today. The references to my hoard of male suitors, my impending death due to bumpy nail beds, and now my freeloading Space Dust pyramid scheme; he doesn’t trust me. At. All. He’s referenced not wanting to ‘take care of anyone’ roughly thirty seven times. He may not say it out loud, but that’s what he’s used to. From M in the beginning to Photoshop Barbie last week, they’ve all needed him in some way. I don’t know who he thinks he’s talking to, but I’m not her. I don’t need a father or a husband. I’ve been doing this shit alone my whole life. I’m good.