Y’all know the drill.
I write. I write stories about my life, my adventures in dogs, my horrible exes, and my that one that wasn’t a horrible ex, ex. Just the absurd ways that one Southern woman who bucked tradition and the genteel cloth cut out for her is making her way through life wearing the attire of her choosing.
Well, we all knew this day would come. The day that one of the horrible exes decided to tell me that “he doesn’t appreciate the way he has been portrayed in my stories”.
Oh. Oh no. Oh whatever will we do? Stop the fucking presses, y’all!
Man, get the fuck out of here. Do you want to know what I have to say about you not liking how I’ve portrayed you in my stories? Maybe you should have been a better person, and I would have written you into a better character. On that note, maybe you should have some fucking character. Or morals. Or anything else that would make you a better human being.
However, you do not. Therefore, I cannot.
I come here and I tell women, some who follow just for laughs, and some who groan and say, “girl, not again..” Yes, bitch, again, I allowed this idiot to pull the wool over my eyes again. And we all chuckle and move on and that’s that.
I don’t come here to rewrite history, not mine, yours, or anyone else’s. What I will not do is stay silent on the asshole moves that you made simply so you don’t have to be afraid to be recognized in one of my stories.
My advice to you, sir, is to be a better fucking person, and you won’t have to worry so much about looking like a real asshole in someone’s life story. Except your own. It’s much too late for you to rewrite your memoirs now. We all know what a genuine piece of shit you are, dude. The only one you’re fooling is yourself.