I Do This Thing, You Know, The People Reading Thing...
Funny, that applies to like, you know...everything.
Good Afternoon, Bitchfaces, and welcome to today’s edition of “You’re Often Astute-Until I Say You Aren’t”…
In other words, “oooooh…what a nifty little reading people type of parlor trick you do, Ms. Macon…you should show up to my party and do it…
No, not on me, Bitch, these other idiots…clearly, you don’t know shit about me. Like, you aren’t all that smart anyway…Bitch”.
Right.
I’m not. Because I’m not telling you what you want to hear about you. It’s only a great trick when I can sort your closet into the full skeletons and bones of the hip level and up, or otherwise located osseous matter.
Where the situation gets a little hairy is when I decide that all of those that should have been labeled tarsus are misfiled under metatarsus and you decide to debate the fucking semantics, when clearly it’s because you have some vested interest in opinion I form.
You’re trying to tell me what I am allowed to think, it seems.
As though I’m not smart enough to do it unguided, as though I may need to be led around by the fucking hand.
I’ve found so many times in my life that when someone tells you all of the positive aspects about something, never the negative, it’s because they either are trying to convince themselves of the positivity, or they know that the negative so far outweighs anything else, a normal person wouldn’t have a chance to see anything or the glaring negative sunblock.
That, to me, is the red flag aisle down to the Don’t Fucking Do It Craft Shop. It’s already triangled, cut, and ready to be hemmed by your favorite seamstress.
I avoid those flags like they’re fucking polyester blouses. They harbor bacteria and odors, and bitch, this is Florida we’re talking about.
Yuck.
So, like the smart and unoffensively scented woman I am, I’ve decided that those red flags can stay right there in the three for a dollar bin, and some bitch less schooled in laundry applications can have them.
I have entirely too much wash to do already.
You have met my dogs. That’s at least 2 loads a day. Because, you know, jerks.