(no subject)
I can internet parade with the best of them.
But real life?
Real life is different.
In real life, I have to deal with the way that you smell and the fact that you say the same things over and over again. And your dirty disgusting shoes that you put on my precious couch. And your spilled beer and sexist comments. And the gay jokes. My GOD, the gay jokes make me want to kill. And all your existential bullshit. The fucking pretention makes me throw up. And the fact that you think you're smarter than me. I may watch Top Model, but I read motherfucker. I read real books. And you know, I really hate the way you breathe. I hate the fact that you don't call first. I hate your perfect hair. I hate your hipster clothes.
And me?
I'm no barrel of laughs either, am I?
You can tell that I'm sitting there in the corner JUDGING YOU and counting the number of times you get ashes on the couch. You can tell I get some perverse pleasure in the fact that my dog doesn't like you either. She either barks like hell or is completely disinterested in anything you have to offer. You can tell that I wish you weren't there.
And even without the silent judgement and the bitchiness and the one word responses.
Even without all of that, there are still the longing glances towards my pile of books. The intense focus I have for whatever show may be on HGTV at the moment. The sigh of relief when I hear an IM from the other room.
I wish you were gone and I wish I were alone.
But real life?
Real life is different.
In real life, I have to deal with the way that you smell and the fact that you say the same things over and over again. And your dirty disgusting shoes that you put on my precious couch. And your spilled beer and sexist comments. And the gay jokes. My GOD, the gay jokes make me want to kill. And all your existential bullshit. The fucking pretention makes me throw up. And the fact that you think you're smarter than me. I may watch Top Model, but I read motherfucker. I read real books. And you know, I really hate the way you breathe. I hate the fact that you don't call first. I hate your perfect hair. I hate your hipster clothes.
And me?
I'm no barrel of laughs either, am I?
You can tell that I'm sitting there in the corner JUDGING YOU and counting the number of times you get ashes on the couch. You can tell I get some perverse pleasure in the fact that my dog doesn't like you either. She either barks like hell or is completely disinterested in anything you have to offer. You can tell that I wish you weren't there.
And even without the silent judgement and the bitchiness and the one word responses.
Even without all of that, there are still the longing glances towards my pile of books. The intense focus I have for whatever show may be on HGTV at the moment. The sigh of relief when I hear an IM from the other room.
I wish you were gone and I wish I were alone.