I've been called a soul sucker. Killer of fun. My response? Fuck you. That's my response. You asked for it. You want your soul to be sucked. You crave a killjoy. Be careful what you wish for, asshole. You want to make me feel bad for having an opinion? For calling out the surplus of salami that you have at home when you throw another pack in the cart at the grocery store (no pun intended, seriously - you already had a full pack of salami at home!)? Double-take my raised eyebrows accompanied by a knowing nod when you grab your bag of work clothes for tomorrow at 10pm the evening before? I get it. I fucking get it, asshole. You're not coming home tonight. Do you think for a second that I don't enjoy washing down a sleeping pill with a vodka soda and having the bed to myself? If you wanted it easy, you picked the wrong fucking girl. I will make you cry. I will make you miserable. I will make you earn your keep. And chances are, you will like it. If you don't like it, you can move the fuck on. But you won't. Because I take care of you. Just like your mother (according to you. I'm just. like. her.). Well, I do love and resent you at the same time, just like you're mother. You've been inside of both of us at one time or another. And it kills you. I am a fucking bitch, just like you called it. That night - sorry, those nights - when I dare questioned you. I may trust you, but I don't have to fucking like it, asshole. Play with me? Are you familiar with the Rolling Stones song? They didn't know it, but they wrote that song about me. I am your mother. I'm your sister. I'm your ex-girlfriend. Your ex-wife. Your ex-soul. Everything you hate about yourself is embodied in me. I wave my weaknesses like a flag. I've earned that flag. And there's nothing you, or I, can do about it. It just fucking is. So fucking deal with it. Just like I do. Fucking deal, asshole. I love you too.
