Goodbye, cruel world. Fuck you, mom. Fuck you for bringing me into this world, this wretched piece of shit existence. Couldn’t you have used a fucking condom, you slut? It’s not like I was your only. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t even your favorite. That honor belonged to my bitch of a sister, who doesn’t even return my calls. Shit, mom, even you don’t return my calls.
What the fuck was I good for, anyway? I graduated fucking summa cum freaking laude from Brown University- a fucking Ivy League school- and I am stuck at this shitty job that doesn’t pay well. Fucking Josh the intern probably makes more than I do. Of course, that’s because Josh the intern takes it up the ass- literally- from upper management. My boss even bragged that the douche bag gave him the best blowjob of his life, and my boss used to date Jenna Haze.
My only friend, that piece of shit dyke that bar tends at LAX, is now talking about how she found herself and that meant that she needs to swear off men. “Men disgust me, dude. It’s nothing personal- just that my psychiatrist (who by the way doubles as her butch girlfriend) thinks that the men I tend to at the bar are causing a problem in my relationship with my girlfriend.”
Again, why she doesn’t refer to Alice by her name is beyond me. She’s always been this way, too, like if she refers to her psychiatrist girlfriend by her name then its unprofessional, a breach in the fucking doctor-patient confidentiality agreement. Lesbians and their ethics.
Fuck you all. My only friends are Smith and Wesson.
Wait. Who the hell is that?
Oh, man, is she sexy! Look at the way she sashays along, dangling her glass of wine, looking so nonchalantly sexy. How long has she been living in the apartment across from mine?
What could she possibly be listening to? Marvin Gaye? Al Green? The subtleness- the fucking sexiness- of her movement could only be attributed to some smoothed out Motown shit. And, oh my God, look at that back!
Her back was in full view as a result of her dancing to the music. The looseness of her top caused it to dangle off to one side, falling off her gorgeous left shoulder- I bet the right one isn’t half bad either- and exposing her brown back.
She turns around- to my dismay since I was not done admiring her back- and I am in heaven. Her face is angelic. She has a weird looking smile that looks so fitting on her round face, with her big eyes offsetting the cute button nose perfectly. And, those lips! Pouty, full. In other words, like everything else about this woman, perfect.
I decide to put down the gun. Maybe life isn’t so bad after all.
Later, when I finally get the courage to ask Helen out, I tell her about that day. I ask her what type of music could possibly get her to dance- nay, groove- like that. She blushed and told me that it was a Nelly Furtado rendition of Crazy, the Gnarls Barkley hit of a couple of years ago. Oh, the irony. I tell her about that day and how she basically saved my life, that her dance is the only reason I am alive. She then looks at me funny, and tells me- fucking orders me- to lose her number and never call her again.
Where is that gun again?