Ma body stores food like a camel would water. That hump there on ma lower abdomen... no... I'm not pregnant. That was just the buffet dinner I had for ma birthday. Last year.

No, really. I don't have a need for you. Cause the last I checked, you are still in abundance.

I could stick ma face under your arms all day. With that cologne... you're a piece of heaven.

Here, have ma soul.

And so I’ve left. The job. After more than 6 months of counting paper clips and refilling my (and everybody else’s) staplers. It was a diplomatic decision. One that was made after much thought and consideration. Including scientific calculations of the number of days I could go without movie patronizing, restaurant dining, manicure sessions and the- mother- of- all- reasons- why- I- choose- to- get- out- of- bed- every- morning- and- trudge- to- work: Shopping.

And apparently, I could not last a week without attempting to sell off every piece of clothing I have and buy those sleek purple heels featured in Female this month.

But there is God. And I’ve been nice this year. (I raised a mother cat and its kittens!! Another story, another time.) I've been granted a new job that pays me enough to get those heels AND a matching clutch. On top of other necessities that includes buying ma daily coffee at 4bux a cup. *Dances naked in the hallway*

A week left for rah-rah merry making. Then it’s on to greener pastures.

La vie est belle.

Thank you,

For putting up with ma tossing and turning in bed. At 4 in the freaking morning.

For “borrowing” me your smart shirts to sleep in cause’ I could not fit ma PJs in ma clutch bag.

For resisting the urge to strangle me when I wiped ma hands on the vacuumed seat of your car. Right after finishing off a bag of Doritos.

For allowing me to smother you with a pillow whenever you snore.

For letting me win whenever we arm wrestled. Despite your muscles and ma flab.

For forgiving me when I polished off the last piece of the double chocolate chip cookie even though it’s your share.
(And assuring me that ma ass has yet to be as wide as the doorway.)

For pretending to be a pillow when I mistook your arms for it.

For understanding ma need of getting the same handbag. In 5 different colors.

For hugging a sweaty and smelly me after ma run. Even though I punched you last week for hugging me right after your workout.

For saying that I’m beautiful in the morning. After a night of scientifically and practically testing the limits of ma alcohol level.

For not looking horrified when I applied Body Shop’s Cocoa butter all over your torso and suggested you go into the oven.

For being you.

The plate is full.

Ingredients:

2 gallons of coffee
1 truckload of misplaced ego
A pinch of insanity

Garnish:

Specks of bull.

Instructions:

1. Mix and toss all ingredients well.
2. Garnish and serve.

Makes ONE serving of fucktard.


*Recipe can be halved. Or doubled.

You're out of touch, I'm out of time
But I'm out of ma head when you're not around

-Out of touch, Uniting Nations-

You don't need alot of words to make a good song.

To hate is such a privilege. I wouldn’t want to waste it on you.

Question.

Eh, how long should I boil an egg for it to be perfectly half-boiled?

I'll bury you alive, thirteen feet under.
And build an empire above it.

I adore you, that much.

Got a gun?

It took 3 years of reiteration to drive it home. And even so, I refuse to compute. Knowing the right way to do it doesn’t make me any less stupid. Cause fate has it that, I’m joined at the hips with the only thing constant.

Now how hard can it be to simply detach myself from the anchor and float senselessly away? It takes 21 days of abstinence, someone says. No wait. That someone was me. And ma words are bull. I don’t take me seriously. But he did. So now what?

I’ll blow ma brains out tonight if not for the abundance of kisses and hugs I have to give away. You want one? It’s free. For now.

"It wasn't love. But it was a lot like it."

Now stop talking to yourself, bitch.