I’m a little depressed…again.

Perhaps more on this later when I am better able to form some cohesive thoughts around my murky emotions. I’m not really too concerned because I feel like it’s my duty to walk around in a dark mood once a month or so. It makes me feel deeper than I am, justifies the constant black clothing choices and I’ll probably get a decent poem out of it. Also, I know myself well enough now to know I’ll snap out of it in a day or two and be back to dancing for the pets with a beer in my hand.

Two things to leave you with today:

One—Sarah Silverman. Am I the only person who thinks she is never funny?  Why is she suddenly being shoved down my throat all day long? I demand a recount!

Two—I can’t stop listening to this song. Perhaps this may have something to do with the depression. And yes, I do know this may be the one of the gayest and most annoying videos we’ve all witnessed, but that just adds to the angsty goodness of the current ennui…

He Hit Me and It Felt Like an Orgasmatron

As I type there is a photo shoot going on outside the (open) office door. Madonna is on full blast (of course) and teenage heads on sticks are blowing cigarette smoke in each other’s faces while flashbulbs go off and the gays wave jazz hands and shout “Work!”. Luckily the delightful and equally as bitter as myself Ms. Sophia Lamar and Ms. Codie Ravioli are sitting next to me in full regalia waiting for their turn in the spotlight, so I have someone to commiserate with.

Lordy, do I hate Madonna and fashion photo shoots. How did I get here? And whoa, what am I doing in this handbasket??

Anyhoo, just what’s in my fevered brain today—

One, as mentioned before, I am a Court TV addict, and recently have been watching Phil Spector’s trial with much interest. In case you’ve been living under a rock, Mr. Spector, long notorious for waving guns and abusing women, is charged with shooting a woman in his home. Her name was Lana Clarkson and he met her at the House of Blues and brought her home.

The theory is that when she decided it was time to leave he got belligerent and waved a gun around and finally shot her. He’s claiming that Lana committed suicide even though his limo driver swore in court that Spector came out of the house and said, “I think I’ve just killed someone.” He also never called 911 and cursed the dead woman out as he was cuffed, tasered, and taken away.

What a douchebag that guy is. In the immortal words of Ms. Nancy Grace, he should fry! But seriously, it’s stunning to watch the story unfold and see how little understanding he has of how absolutely selfish he’s been his entire life. I think a little down time as someone’s bitch in prison might be just the lesson the horrid, evil little twink deserves.

This morning they had La La Brooks on as a guest. La La was one of the original members of the Crystals, their two big songs were “Da Doo Run Run” and “Then He Kissed Me”. They had six songs in the top twenty in 1962 & 1963 and also did the infamous “He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss)”. She was 13 when she started with the group and she doesn’t see a dime from any of the songs she sang. So every time he puts out a new compilation album with music from the Crystals, she has to walk into a record store, hear the music being played, and find a way to live with the fact that the nasty man who used her when she was a teenager is still making large profits off of her work. I can’t imagine how disheartening that must be.

LaLa was asked for her thoughts and she said that she tries very hard not to be angry and bitter. And she did sound very positive. She’s performing in NYC soon, she looked beautiful and seemed to have a good head about everything. But what she did say was that she resents that every penny that should be hers is going to pay for his defense. She’s currently in legal wrangling to try to get what’s due her, and I certainly hope that both parties get what is due them in court.

And secondly, Orgasmatron came on the ipod shuffle this morning and I was once again struck by how great this song is. I know from personal experience that Lemmy, a history and war buff, is very proud of it, and well he should be. The lyrics are just as appropriate now as ever considering our political climate, and it just sounds pretty fucking amazing. I suggest everyone go listen to it immediately, volume knob on 11.

I am the one, Orgasmatron, the outstretched grasping hand
My image is of agony, my servants rape the land
Obsequious and arrogant, clandestine and vain
Two thousand years of misery, of torture in my name
Hypocrisy made paramount, paranoia the law
My name is called religion, sadistic, sacred whore.

I twist the truth, I rule the world, my crown is called deceit
I am the emperor of lies, you grovel at my feet
I rob you and I slaughter you, your downfall is my gain
And still you play the sycophant and revel in you pain
And all my promises are lies, all my love is hate
I am the politician, and I decide your fate

I march before a martyred world, an army for the fight
I speak of great heroic days, of victory and might
I hold a banner drenched in blood, I urge you to be brave
I lead you to your destiny, I lead you to your grave
Your bones will build my palaces, your eyes will stud my crown
For I am Mars, the god of War, and I will cut you down.

Just a Teensy Bit More Celebrity Skinned

Okay, I know I’ve sworn not to continue to pay close attention to the lives of the rich and famous, but I have one teeny, tiny more thing to discuss (stop rolling your eyes, Rocket). I would like to preface this with saying that I do not in any way presume to know the inner workings of these people’s lives and the opinions stated herein are conjecture only:

I spent a day festering over the new Marilyn Manson video. If you haven’t seen it, you haven’t missed anything, but if you want to it’s on his website. It’s him fucking his new teenage girlfriend, taking polaroids of her in his car while she steers with a high heel, poses with a knife and shouts “Faster!”. Then there’s some stage bullshit where she licks her lips and eyes him from the audience through lolita glasses while he sings about how she’s just like the girl he wanted in high school (who undoubtedly treated his nerd ass like shit back then), and then back to fucking some more but this time in blood.

The song is godawful and the video is retarded. It’s like a teenage goth girl’s version of what is romantic, dangerous and sexy. And Manson is currently playing it up in the press that they may or may not have actually been fucking while being filmed. To me it appears to be an obvious and vicious slap at Dita Von Teese, who has been nothing but gracious in the press about Manson’s infidelity and the subsequent demise of their relationship.

I’m not obsessed with Dita the way a lot of females are. I’m sort of bored with the whole burlesque overload, every girl from here to Japan is posing naked with a feather fan these days (Jo Boobs, of course you are an exception to this rule). And I never thought she was as gorgeous as everyone else thinks she is.

But I do think she has a flawless sense of style, I love her glamour, and she’s very obviously intelligent and hardworking. I also have a newfound respect for her after reading recent interviews. She has been nothing short of stellar in her behavior and statements regarding her personal life, never saying too much or being insulting or petulant, but at the same time speaking her own truth very clearly. She’s behaved, dare I say it, in a most ladylike fashion.

Manson, on the other hand, and in my humble and completely outside opinion, is behaving like an evil, vindictive, arrogant, spoiled asshole, with no regard for the fact that not very long ago he spoke some vows that had to do with honor and respect. If he wants a tiny new girlfriend who worships him, more power to him, but at least take into consideration that faux-or-real fucking her on film before a divorce is even final might not be the nicest thing in the world to do.

So why do I care or am even interested, you ask? I asked myself the same thing. I have no reason to be anything other than marginally amused. I was once a minor Manson groupie but he stopped being interesting to me quite a few years ago. And I don’t know Dita, but I do know that she’s got a more than fabulous life, so why should I feel sorry or outraged if her soon-to-be ex-husband is rubbing shit in her face?

I wondered this very thing, my loyal readers, and then it came to me last night in the form of a visual memory. A picture flashed in my brain of my friend Lola looking at me across a crowded room with tears shining in her eyes as she mouthed the words, “I’m so sorry.”

I am heartily sick of talking about my past in these blogs and I’m sure you’re bored with it too. I have a great life and the greatest boyfriend on the planet and Iately have no desire to dwell on anything else but the present. So I’m not going to go into too much detail, except to tell you that long ago there was a moment in my life when I ended up in a crowded room watching Lydia Lunch’s big fat assface (that’s a technical term, people) bray her “spoken word” about fucking someone I loved behind my back, while that same person that I once loved stood behind her proudly, having orchestrated the entire performance.

It was beyond excruciating. My whole body shook and I felt dizzy. Everything slowed down for a few moments as I saw ice coming from nowhere (though I knew it was from my friends in the audience), floating gently across the air on a current of smoke and then speeding up to pelt Lydia as she spewed her garbage. And then that final, also slow-motion vision of Lola turning to me from across the room to speak those words.

A few years after that a friend of mine, who incidentally, and until recently worked with Manson for many years, told me that while I was in a photo shoot for a German magazine in Yaffa Café, she was with Lydia at a nearby table, and Lydia spent the entire lunch stuffing her face with fried pork (okay, I made that part up) and freaking out worrying that I would spot her and react violently. I never noticed that she was there and if I had it wouldn’t have bothered me. I was well past it by that time and I know that in some ways she did me a favor, although I will always tell people I think she’s a selfish, untalented, overrated asshole when her name comes up. I wish she’d just get that hug from daddy and be done with the bullshit already.

Anyhoo, so it clicked that that’s why I’ve been taking it so personally—because I once could relate to Dita’s pain, albeit on a much smaller and infinitely trashier scale. Manson’s girlfriend has an excuse. She’s just a teenager and he reportedly paid her loads of cash to be in his video. I did all kinds of selfish, idiotic things at that age for no money whatsoever. It’s him I want to throw ice at. But it’s not really him personally either. I think the core of what is bothering me is just the idea that an artist I once respected can be so rotten to someone they were supposed to care about, someone that they stood up in front of friends and swore to care about forever. It hurts me to see an intention that ugly on film, regardless of who it’s coming from.

Shit. I am turning into a real sap in need of some toughening up. Okay, I promise this is the last famous person gossip rant for a little while, and I would appreciate it if someone could get me to a Slayer gig, stat.

Oh, and two more random Saturday items:

Request for the day, sent out to the Universe (because the idiots I’m complaining about are far too addled to focus long enough to read a blog): No more people who apologize for being crazy with MORE crazy, please. What is up with that? And why does the crazy always have to arrive on the answering machine at 2:30 am? Am I the only one who carries a trail of alcoholic lunatics I knew 20 years ago, all lurching around their phones in the middle of the night like drunken zombies, whispering “I love you” when what they really mean is, “Brains!!” Certainly anyone my age should be able to obtain decent anti-depressants and sleep aids by now. Or maybe this a normal occurrence in most adult lives and I’m expecting too much from the vampires of the night? Please discuss amongst yourselves and get back to me on this one.

And lastly, from my new friend Spencer, and for your entertainment pleasure, I’ll leave you with a far better song than Manson’s latest. Apparently Perry Farrell still has much to give, a portion of that being Nuno Bettencourt playing around in water with no shirt on.

Oh, and P.S., how many times did I use the word “fucking” in this blog? Sorry, mom.

Celebrity Skinned

It’s no secret that I like to read the gossip rags and websites. But I think I’ve finally reached a saturation point.

There was a lot of discussion in the office today about Paris Hilton. She shops in the store once in a while and is always very sweet and easy to deal with, with no attitude whatsoever.

I understand why someone might not be a fan, but I am really confused and fascinated by the fact that people on this planet hate her so much that they’re excited by the possibility that she might suffer in jail. There are a lot of people out there who really want her to get hurt and are very vocal about it. Why the vitriol? Is it because people are jealous of her over-privilege?

Shit, I know I am. I’d love to be able to do nothing but shop all day and be a drunken slut all night. I think she should pay the same consequences for breaking the law as anyone else, and I do wish she’d take better care of her pets and maybe donate some of that dough to some worthy causes. But I don’t have any desire to see her physically wounded and it confuses me that anyone would put so much energy into hating someone who isn’t affecting their own life in any way.

Secondly, Christie Brinkley and Billy Joel’s daughter and the constant shit she’s getting from Perez Hilton: That poor, unfortunate soul did not win the genetic lotto that should have been her birthright, and instead of looking like her mother actually looks a lot like her dad. No woman on this earth should have Billy Joel’s face, it doesn’t even look good on him! But there it is.

The first time I saw her photo I squeaked and then forgot about it until I read a letter she wrote to Perez, who has been saying mean things about her looks for some time. The letter was very well written and explained that she was young and just trying to live her life and that she didn’t understand why he was constantly being so rotten about her looks, that it hurt her, and she never claimed to be a supermodel. That turned her into a real person for me instead of just an image to giggle at online. I doubt I would have been as articulate and gracious at that age if caught in the same situation.

I thought it was cool that Perez posted the letter, but then a few days later he posted another photo of her, photoshopped to exaggerate her less than perfect features. It was so mean-spirited that it stunned me for a moment, and I’ve sworn off his site since.

Third, a couple of things hitting closer to home are affecting how I view our cultural fame consumption. One is that fans of Jesse’s, people who have met him once or twice or occasionally get to have a conversation with him at shows, will contact me via myspace and say things about his personal life as if they are intimate friends and they really know what’s going on. I understand the desire to feel close to people we admire, listen to, watch, etc., and I don’t think anyone I’ve come in contact with wishes him ill or means him harm. But it creeps me out a little and makes me feel more protective of him than I ever did when we were actually together and I just wanted to shove him out a window most days.

The other thing in my personal camp is that the singer in Drew’s band is a bit of a celebrity and currently a regular on gossip websites. Today a few sites posted some erroneous information about the inner opinions of band members, supposedly gleaned from an eavesdropped conversation. Luckily they’re all good guys who trust each other, but it was potentially damaging. And more than that, it was just sort of gross to know that people are that up in someone’s shit that they’ll sell any little bit of dirt they think they have, whether it’s true or not, and then the rest of us will read it and assume it’s bona fide.

And this is on a very small level—imagine what it must be like to be really famous and have people digging through your garbage all day long. It’s so depressing and small.

So these things happening in succession have made me determined not to feed into the machine as deeply as I have in the past. I’m not saying I’m never going to read Us Weekly again (a girl’s gotta be entertained during her pedicures) but I really want to stop purchasing the magazines and visiting the sites that make money off of crawling up into total stranger’s alleged lives.

The other portion of my current thought process is just meanness in general. I am a mean, mean girl. Some of the nicknames given to me from friends and family are Darklady, the Kracken, Mary McKracken, Darth Mare, and Scary. There is a definite pattern there. And I’m totally cool with that. I’ve always liked Maleficent way better than Sleeping Beauty, Catwoman far more than Batgirl, Veronica more than Betty. But I truly want to free myself from mean-spirited speech and behavior. I want to stop saying every shitty, rotten, hurtful thing that pops into my brain.

It recently came to my attention that someone overheard something I was saying about them that was far from nice. It isn’t a person that I can readily apologize to, and I feel badly about it. I’ll get frustrated and run my big fat mouth without really meaning everything I say. But once you put it out there it becomes so much more real than a momentary venting. There has to be a way to say things without belittling or wounding people.

And then lastly, I was on yesterday and they had posted a video of a breakdancer in Times Square accidentally kicking a toddler full in the face and sending her flying into the air and slamming face down onto the ground. It was absolutely awful, just stunningly painful to see. But what was way, way more awful was the list of comment after comment after comment from people stating how funny they found the video. Not one person asked if the little girl was okay and reading the words made me want to cry. How do we get to a place where we are so numb that we think injuring babies is entertaining?

I know celebrity cannibalism and mean-spiritedness are ostensibly different issues, but they’re connecting in my head right now. I guess because they’re both small of soul and not where our consciousnesses belong. I feel polluted by both and I want to get clean. I’ll never be a sweet little thing, and Lord knows what hell I’m going to be when I’m really old and all filters have eroded away completely. I apologize in advance to all of those close to me.

But in the meantime I’m going to work on becoming more conscious and less hurtful with the things I say and think, and I want to stop obsessively feeding my brain with erroneous bullshit about people I don’t know.

All that being said, I’ll still be visiting on a daily basis. Cause those bitches are mean about fashion rather than faces, and they’re frigging hilarious. Every time Britney leaves the house it’s internet gold.

Last Night

Just wanted to post a little notice to all the friends that turned out last night to see the She Wolves and celebrate Ace’s Birthday and the Reality Check DVD release:

Many thanks to my bandmate and sister Donna and drumkiller Tony Monster for letting me get up and sing that song one more time. I am honestly amazed that anyone is still excited to hear us do Beer, but since you are, I’m more than happy to strap on a miniskirt and perform. I like doing one song because it’s all the glory with none of the work. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am! Also many thanks to the Reality Check boys, you always know how to make a girl feel like a total rockstar. Looking forward to the feature on this night.

She Wolves sounded heavy as fuck and Richie Scarlet did a great job on guest guitar. He rocked the shit out of Beer and next time I see him I’ll have to apologize for singing a couple of lines over his solo. I will use the excuse that I couldn’t hear well onstage and his screaming guitar licks fueled a fire in my brain that could not be stopped! It was also really fun to turn around and see Donna playing guitar on the song after years of standing next to each other at the mike. She’s the one of us who actually got the energy up to learn to play an instrument. Extreme laziness and expensive manicures have prevented me from attempting same.

What was really cool about last night, and the reason I’m marking it down with a blog, is that nearly everyone in the room was a good friend in a good mood – Donna & Riad, Cid, Dano, Christine, Electric Dave, Motley Stue, Tony, rock babes Masayo & Chiharu, Pam Grande, Scott, Minna all the way from Finland speaking in that accent that I love, even the lovely Sean, ex of White Zombie, who I haven’t seen in a million years and meant to exchange numbers with and then of course forgot. I am so grateful to know the people I do, people who never give up on rock and roll. Everyone was happy to be near each other while listening to friends play, and to me it just doesn’t get any better than that, honestly.

There are many more I’m forgetting to name but forgive me, my head is still wonkey from being sick. I wasn’t completely up to par and had to leave early after some quick tequila therapy, thereby missing some Celtic Frost action at Cups with Supermorgan, and callously abandoning Dano to struggle through a Warriors style way home.

Oh, and lastly, a special shout out to the security guy at the door who flipped out when he saw the birthdate on my driver’s license. I’m bringing him flowers and chocolate next time I hit the Delancey.

Life is good.

Items For Today

One – I have yet another cold this year and spent the whole day in bed yesterday feeling extremely sorry for myself. So I’m warning local friends coming out tonight that though I will be at the Delancey in a slutty ensemble, I may not be up to par party  and performance-wise. Since I’m such a minor part of the show it really shouldn’t be a deterrent as it’s going to be a full-tilt evening.

Two – it has come to my attention that some people are under the erroneous impression that the conversation with an ex blog that I posted a little while back had to do with a certain high profile NYC singer-songwriter. I would like to let any inquiring minds who are reading my blogs know that because he is a high profile person, and also very private, I don’t post any of our intimate conversations or his personal details here. That conversation was actually with my ex-husband, who doesn’t care at all what I post as long as I spell his name right and occasionally mention that he’s well-endowed.

I’m bringing it up because I don’t want any bad rumors circulating around about people’s personal lives. I don’t mind if my own shit is splattered everywhere; I’m pathologically prone to spilling all of my most embarrassing moments, but I do want to exercise some discretion when it comes to the people I love.

Third, I finally got a chance to watch a DVD of Donna and I being interviewed on Reality Check TV at the C.O.P. reunion (thanks, Danny!), well after a few back-slapping shots had been consumed, and I was slightly mortified. Apparently I talk completely through the nose when intoxicated. I’m already nasal, but that night I sounded like a Midwestern housewife at a PTA bake sale (“Darling sweater, Marge. Did you get it at Talbots?”). Hideous! Why didn’t you people tell me? I have also been giving my sister shit for years over a certain mouth thing she does when drunk only to witness myself doing the same thing on film. I hate when illusions of grandeur about self are shattered and hereby promise, though probably far too late in a career to be meaninful, to shun all cameras when consuming celebratory shots with old friends.

All right. Gotta go blow my nose for the millionth time today.


I always get complaints that I forget to post this stuff til the last minute, so it’s in blog form a day early for y’all.

If you’re looking for something cool to do on Wednesday night, I’m singing Beer with the inimitable She Wolves at the combo party for Ace’s birthday and Reality Check’s Real Rock Diva’s dvd release at the Delancey. Yes, yes, you’ve seen us do this song a million times, but I promise I’ll wear something different and maybe sing it backwards this time. Plus the upside of me only having to sing one song is that it provides tons more quality bar hours while Donna and her crew do all the actual work. Yippee!


My Secret Obsession

I have a serious problem that I need to share with thousands of myspace friends.

No, it’s not that crap-ass Fallout Boy bar on 11th Street. Although on a side-note, I did hear that the girl who lives upstairs dumped a bucket of water on the patrons on opening night, barely missing an actual Fallout Boy. If anyone knows her please send her my way, she sounds like a swell gal and I would like to be able to access her window, possibly with buckets of other substances.

My problem is far more bleak. It’s an addiction to something completely unhealthy and very dark.

It’s a nightly toe into the pool of darkness, if you will.

It’s the Nancy Grace show (cue scary organ music).
For those of you who are not familiar with Ms. Grace, I must give you a visual:

And here’s a little video of her cracking a rape joke.

Look at that helmet of blonde hair. It’s flawless. Look at the pounds and pounds of makeup on that angry little face. She’s like a shih tzu in drag. And Lord knows I love a good yag. She comes on the screen and I am instantly mesmerized by her strident questions and eyeshadow choices. How much layering goes into that effect? How many colors? Does she prepare her rage-filled statements ahead of time while sitting in the hair and makeup room? Inquiring minds want to know.

But Nancy is no ordinary high-pitched drag queen. She’s a bona-fide lawyer hosting the most hostile “news” show on television, on CNN as a matter of fact, and barring major breaking news like 9/11 she is the only reason I ever tune into that channel. I get my regular news from Jon Stewart and The Colbert Report and the rare occasion that I actually pay attention to Drew when he gives me the rundown on the Air America shows he listens to every day. Usually as soon as he says “I heard on the news today…” my brain tweets off into wondering if my new bangs are the right length or whether Johnny Depp is still worthy of interest. But Nancy Grace? Now that’s a news program that keeps me riveted.

Ms. Grace used to work on Court TV, also a favorite. I can watch a droney court trial on that channel for hours, especially when the courtroom moments are broken up every so often by an overly made up woman in a powder blue jacket yelling in a slight southern drawl: “He should FRY!” See, Nancy isn’t afraid to jump to a good conclusion. And she isn’t afraid to voice her opinion over anyone else who’s trying to talk. She’s a pistol! She scares the crap out of me and I love it!

Her show is touted as “the only justice themed interview/debate show, designed for those interested in the justice stories of the day”. Translation: lurid crime drama for crackers! Murder, mayhem, sordid tales of abuse and neglect! The kid whose crackhead parents kept him in a cage? He’s there! White sorority girls who disappear in the Bahamas? The whole family is on for weeks and weeks while Nancy’s film crew harasses the spoiled Dutch kid who she is sure got away with the murder. Cheerleading coaches who sleep with male students, murdered pregnant wives, dastardly cheating husbands? Nancy’s got ’em, and she’s happy to yell at, shout over, and generally harass any defense lawyer naïve enough to go on her show expecting talk time.

That whole innocent until proven guilty thing is a mere fly buzzing in the corner window of Nancy’s newsroom, and the more salacious the tale, the better as far as all are concerned.

So over the last decade I’ve become a real lightweight when it comes to film and news. I like to attribute it to an ever-expanding consciousness, though others might say I’m just getting old and weak. But I see our mainstream news and entertainment systems as pandering to our lowest minds in the 21st century. I really believe we’re in the decline of Western Civilization and the constant glut of movies with the primary focus on watching people torture, mutilate and murder each other are to me, a sure sign of the idiocy of the populous. It’s the modern version of the gladiator ring. Blood, we want blood! We’re so desensitized that we’re not happy unless someone’s sawing off a limb or running a hotel where torture is the main focus of room service, and it bores and depresses me.

And our news is the same: everything is child abuse and child pornography and sex scandals and people destroying each other in new and ever-expanding ways. We don’t have any information in the mainstream about our abortion rights slowly being eroded away, but we know all about every violent maniac in the tri-state area and whether Angelina Jolie’s still happy with Brad or not. I don’t know what’s happening with the war but I know what Britney Spears pussy looks like up close.

Culturally we’re slavering, drooling, pathetic half-wits who can only get off on the basest of entertainment. We worship serial killers and manufactured pop stars and we treat each other like crap because we believe ourselves to be islands unto ourselves.

Ugh. I can’t take it. I truly don’t want to pollute my soul with this stuff anymore. I can feel that it’s not good for me, the same way I feel like shit after eating McDonalds.

So why the hell am I still watching Nancy? Because even though it’s bad for me, it still tastes good going down. And in this case it won’t make make me fat. And even though I will never watch Saw or Hostel, I am still a product of the times. I list the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre among my favorite movies and I was once addicted to a little first person shooter computer game called Redneck Rampage. After that it was No One Lives Forever, and currently Destroy All Humans on the Xbox plays a big part of visits home. So maybe Nancy is that part of my desire for the escape and adrenaline of the lurid and the violent.

Plus I just really like the fact that someone on mainstream television gets away with that much makeup.So hmm… perhaps it’s simply that all roads lead back to some demented need for overly painted high camp. God, that’s predictable. Honestly, you people are far too indulgent sometimes for reading all the way through these things.

Time Takes Sharp Edges and Makes Them Smooth

Me: So that was it?

Him: Yeah. She took off with her fag friends for a month to get over it and I packed and cried.

Me: Aw, that sucks. I’m so sorry, baby.

Him: You know, I thought I was going to grow old with this person.

Me: I did too, I really did. I’m stunned.

Him: I was trying to remember if I got this upset with you and me.

Me: Fuck you! You are such an asshole.

Him (laughing): Well, I was heavily sedated that time.

Me: Um, yeah. Ya think?

Him (giggling): Yeah…just a little…

Me: You’re a jerk. But it’s gonna be okay.

Him (sighing): Yeah…I know…it’s cool.

Me: I love you. You can always call me if you need to.

Him: I love you too.

Me: Talk to you soon, k?

Him: Yep. Tell Drew I said hi.

Me: I will.

Him: Bye, honey.

Me: Bye.
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