Y’all. Gooooooddam.
So, here in the South, when you speak to folk, the object is to make them feel as though they are the only person in the universe at the time. Pay attention, smile, nod, etc. etc.
These are the things that make me an excellent bartender. These are the things that make me seem like I give 2 hot damns, when chances are, I do no such thing.
So, BMan says to me “this situation has some certified stalker written on it”, and I know he’s right, but I just don’t have the damned time.
OK, yes, I am a real and tangible person. But what you’re getting from me are like 30 years worth of awesome stories in a one year period. Of course I sound fantastic, I took out all the boring parts.
I need to be crystal clear: man or woman, if you invade my personal space and you’re not welcome, I will light that ass up. It will be bzzzz bzzzz and then you’re taking a porch nap. Drooling. Probably pissed yourself.
I love the readers I connect with. Y’all know it. Those of y’all that get my bullshit emails and texts, y’all probably wish I didn’t connect so much. However, if you try to encroach upon my boundaries, I will not let you act like paparazzi. I am aware of how stalking laws came to pass, and we’re just not doing all of that.
I appreciate that you like speaking to me. Also, likewise. Please, please understand. In my little world, I don’t have a place for any more crazy. I spent years dating it, I am all fulled up now.
So, let’s just do things in a civilized fashion. You in your life, me in mine, and we’ll be cool. Please, for the love of Baby Jesus, do not think because you are a woman that you are allowed to make me feel nervous and uncomfortable. No, ma’am. Keep it moving, pimpin.
That’s hilarious, in a messed-up way. I’ve spent years telling people that I’ve had enough crazy—take it somewhere else, because I’m all done.