Monday, May 2, 2011

A Love Letter to Five Assholes Pt. 2

It's that time again folks! Time for another love letter, to five assholes.

This has been a busy and crazy couple of weeks, and one thing in life I can always count on, is that the busier or crazier the week is, the more filled with assholes it will become. And these last couple weeks did not disappoint.

-To the asshole who cussed me out at Starbucks for taking the parking spot he was "waiting for" as it sat empty for not 1, not 2, not 3, but 5 minutes while he sat in his Lexus texting and blocking the driveway for the people behind him, you're an asshole. I was able to listen to an entire Bob Dylan song in the time I waited for you to move your stupid car and take the spot, but you never looked up once. So I TOOK IT. And you know what? I don't even feel bad. It was a sweet spot, and you blew it fucker. So instead of rolling your window down and screaming that I'm a bitch, why don't you go see your therapist and prove to them that you really do need to increase your medication. I believe you.

-To the waiter at Sweet Tomato's who came over to the table while I was struggling to control my two cracked out kids, and eat some dinner, and keep macaroni out of my hair, AND keep from losing my schmidt altogether and just setting the nearest thing on fire, to offer my kids cookies, loudly and with that schmidt eating grin on your face, you're an asshole. The cookies are at the desert bar. We know how to find them. If I wanted to shut their little traps with a fucking cookie, I would have done so on my own. Except NOW they heard the magic word: COOKIE. You must not have kids. You must not know what the word cookie does to two unruly, tired and stubborn little kids who are being tortured brutally with forced broccoli consumption. You must not have ever in your sorry, pathetic, waiter at Sweet Tomato's life, tried to get said kids to eat their fucking broccoli, after someone said cookie. I hope you get fat from all the cookies you're pimping out, and the chocolate chips make your acne even worse. Jerk.

-To my exboyfriend that it took me two years to get over, who called me Saturday night, when I was at my most sad, pathetic, lonely, rejected and of course drunk: you're an asshole. Now, we both know that when you haven't seen someone in years, and you haven't talked to them in just as long, and you have a girlfriend, if you call another girl at midnight, FROM THE BAR, "just to catch up" it is a solid fact that you are not calling to "catch up". You're calling to catch some tail. You are calling to be a sleazy, cheating bastard which you've actually always been pretty good at being. Just know that you're an asshole, and if you keep it up this way, at some point you should get tested for herpes.

-To my Roomie who left for Switzerland in the middle of my heartbreak and unbearable emo-ness, and left me with two kids and no wine or dark chocolate, you're an asshole. I love you, Dear Roomie, I do. But I miss you terribly, and a week is just too long to be in another country when I am so very very sad, lonely and sober. Please come home. And please bring me something pretty, preferably containing alcohol of some kind.

-To the father's of my children who both left me with their kid and no financial or emotional support so they could run off and enjoy their lives free from responsibility, without ever really looking back or helping at all: You two are the biggest assholes of them all. It's not that you did anything exceptionally asshole-ish this week to get yourselves into this post. It's what you haven't been doing since your children were born. Like being there for them, or *gasp* paying child support so they could have the things they needed and deserved without me having to become a stripper or rob a bank, or worse, borrow money from like everyone I know just to provide them with the basics. I found out that their daycare assistance is being cancelled due to governmental cutbacks, and without childsupport or the death of a very wealthy family member, I won't be able to keep them in the daycare they love, with people I trust, so I can work to support them and buy that little thing called food. I love my children, I wouldn't trade them for the world, and I want what's best for them. Ya know, like a roof over their head and clothes to wear. But obviously neither of you give a shit enough to make sure they have that. The Jedi's sperm donor is spending his money paying for a wedding with some slutbag who has a 4 year old son of her own, while his son is here, several states away with no father. Nice. The other half of Tiny's DNA has never held down a job for more than a couple months, and works under the table and lives with his mother. So yeah, good luck getting money out of that.

I hope you've enjoyed this installment of "A Love Letter to Five Assholes". Join us next time we explore the wonderfully unbearable creatures that society has to offer. Same bat time, same bat blog.

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