One beer, I’m still feeling aggressive.

They knew what he did. And yet, here he was. Still. A memory of forced socialization now being forced upon me again.

It’s not like I expected them to give him up. I’m sure he has many good qualities—I just fail to see any of them.

“Have we met before?” You motherfucker, you know damn well that we have. They explained everything to you—went over the whole ordeal–showed you my goddamned picture—and still you apparently drew a blank. Because that’s who I was—that’s what I was. One of many. Well, E Pluribus Unum, motherfucker. ‘Cause I ain’t goin’ anywhere.

Two beers, I’m willing to compromise.

I’m not giving up my life just to avoid his. I’m not bypassing certain parts of my life because he makes me uncomfortable.

“Comfort is nice, but not necessary,” my father always said. Another rapist. Huh.

Well, anyway, this couch is mine. This little spot on the log in front of the bonfire? Also mine. Ooh, look! I can roast marshmallows too, fucker! This may not be my house, but this is gonna be my turf—watch me spray.

Do female cats spray?

Three beers, I have suddenly becom forgivng.

Fuck it. Fuck him. It was one night, like, two fucking years ago. Worse people have done worse things, and you got out of the whole ordeal unscathed. Relatively. No need to make a big deal over spilled milk…or something…

Four beers, you sya funny thngs,

The liquor is flowing, loosening up the feelings of frustration and anger. The looser my mind, the sharper my tongue. I heard a bible verse once comparing the tongue to a wild stallion that must be tamed to avoid destruction…I can’t remember it now…is that what my tongue is? A stallion? A wild, rabid unicorn, dashing through the fear and anxiety with the elegant, pointed horn of insults? Does it poop self-esteem?

Fvie bers, put mor in the coolr.

Fuck, there are some good-looking guys here. Bet they’re all gay, too. Damn. Why do the gay boys get the best ones? They get Anderson Cooper, and we get Steve-O. Wait, this one’s not gay maybe! Okay, shimmy down the top, shimmy up the boobs. No, not too desperate—just…encouraging. You know, this kind of behavior might just explain some past situations.

.

.

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Welp! Tuck that little existential horror away to be analyzed later…

 

Six brees, fkuc flie si wndreful.

HE HAS LEFT! I AM STILL HERE! I HAVE WON THE GAME! NO SPRAYING REQUIRED!