Like, this, except in my brain. What the fuck is really happening here?
Stop the fucking presses, Bitchfaces, because your Queen has some new damned gnus to bring you direct from the Isle Of The Fuckboy.
Now, Ms. Macon is no medical professional, because that’s a lot of icky stuff, and I don’t handle icky well. However, I’m 5 gallons of crazy in a 3.5 gallon pail, so I can describe crazy to you as though you’re drawing a police artist rendition of it, okay.
I’m starting to think that the Fuckboy 5.0 is bipolar. Or on really, really good drugs. Like high test shit, racing fuel of the drug family. There is just no other way to explain this type of mindfuck that is happening here.
I swear to God, I’m fully lost at this point. And I also am starting to think that is exactly what is supposed to be happening.
Out of the blue, he’ll pop up. He’s absolutely the best dude on the planet for sometimes a solid 72 hours.
Then, poof. No calls, texts, explanations, nothing.
So, I just sit here wondering what in the actual fuck just happened here. Like am I perishable goods, and after being unrefrigerated for 3 days, it’s simply better for everyone’s health if I’m tossed?
I’m 2 day old wilted lettuce, y’all. I’m flat fucking soda. I’m completely out of his life, without so much as a “fuck you very much”.
So, of course, I being the fucking masochist of earlier discussions, am left wondering what is so fucking wrong with me. Why does he keep popping back up like a demented game of fucking whack a mole?
Why won’t he just get in the damned closet with the rest of the skeletons, and forget he ever existed?
I don’t know. Is this that new school type of shit the kids call friends with additional assets on loan, and possible improvements on a case by case basis? Wait, that’s not right. Acquaintances who acquiesce? Pals with perks?
I don’t understand, and I’m not going to pretend as though I do. I’m from a school of thought where, if someone goes out of their way to talk to you, and you do the same, with a common result having been discussed, then that clearly means there is something happening between y’all.
Nope. Not this time, y’all.
This time I can’t get a hand cut in, my chips are no good at this table, and I also firmly suspect the fucking dice are loaded.
I can’t ride this roller coaster any longer.
Pardon Ms. Macon for a moment will y’all?
I feel incredibly nauseated, and I think I’ll feel much better if I just throw up.