Ok, y’all, I know factually that there has never been a singular incident where I have come to y’all and been like, “man, y’all, I am so fucking sane. Like, really”.
Not even one time did I come at y’all like that shit is believable. We all know I’m fucking crazier than a sprayed roach.
However, I know my triggers, my limitations, and my jump point.
I think we may fucking be there. The jump point is looking at me like, “um, bitch, you gonna jump today, because now there’s a fucking line, you indecisive bitch”.
Truth be told, I am 100% ready. I have the fucking soundtrack playing, bitches, so don’t even ask me any level of the dumb shit at this point. I’m telling you, it’s Kevin Gates at this point in the day, and if you really know me… maaaaaan.
I had one relationship that tried to rob me of everything, including the air in my lungs. I barely made it out alive, but trust me, it wasn’t for lack of that pussy bitch trying. So, let’s phrase this in some mild and ineffective fashion and say that I am fully aware of any and all flags, lest they should pop out of the dryer looking some shade of crimson.
I mean, you can take solace in the fact that a flag the size of my cold, black heart couldn’t slide through here unnoticed. None, nil, zero, nada, uh uh.
I will go ahead and let y’all know, I saw this fucking flag, and I almost ran out the door without even grabbing my fucking handbag. If it wasn’t for my stilettos being randomly about the joint, my ass would have just disappeared like mist in the damned morning.
Knowing everything that he knows about me, about that whole situation, about the lasting effects of that time in the 3rd circle of hell, one would truly believe that it might actually occur to someone that perhaps it isn’t the best idea to display any sort of similarity to the trash that left me an emotional fucking jigsaw puzzle.
Yet, here you go.
OK, we can get static. I have plenty of fucking static to share, matter of fact.
That’s it. I have nothing else at the fucking moment.