Sheryl
Hell, I don't know. I don't like pink. I don't like frills. I don't do ruffles. "Precious Moments" make me puke. If it's a cutesy little bear or a goose with a big blue bow around its neck, I'd just as soon somebody killed it. Cute but stupid just doesn't do it for me anymore, I require something a bit more than an ornament. I'm sick of listening for 45 minutes to some guy's rambling discourse about his "brain capacity units" before I give in and tell him, "Just shut up and look pretty, honey." My boobs don't talk, and I inform the people who insist on addressing them of this little known fact. I usually further piss them off by rewarding their utterly confused "wha?" look with a snort of derision and a comment they of course fail to understand, about their IQ.
I'm not gushy, randomly sympathetic, or receptive to whining. I don't care who won the game. I don't care if your shoes match your dress. I don't care who said what to whom for how many cookies, or who lied, cheated or otherwise fucked up your world. It's probably trivial and pointless bullshit anyway. I don't want you to call me in the middle of the night, waking me up, just because you wanted to hear my voice. I don't want to hear yours that badly. Call me in the morning. Better yet, send me an e-mail that I can open at my convenience.
I don't think the phone ringing is reason enough to stop what I'm doing and answer it. I don't care who's at the door. I'm in the middle of something and I'm not about to stop just to entertain someone who I probably don't care to see anyway.
I don't want you to tell me what happened on "Days..." I don't want to know about the movie you saw last night. Either I know what it was about or I don't, and if I want to go see it I will. Just shut up already.
Yes! I want to read more from Real Life Heartless Bitches
|
