Ladies and gentlemen, I have a confession. I’m not partying, I’m trying not to kill myself. I’m not in some beach house, or some underground, hippy rich club mansion house party party-ing it up on the weekends. I’m in my room. In my rickety-roo room. With the blinds closed. With the bedsheets not having been changed in probably over a year. Collecting dandruff and dust. Simultaneously figuring out how to save myself and you at the same time. “Save” is not a good word, but to put it frank I’m trying to figure out how to do it so that we both have a good life. And it’s driving me to the brink of insanity.
I’m not trying to garner sympathy. I’m just here, writing in this post, to simply tell you to go FUCK yourself. Yes, you. But, more realistically, at the same time, I won’t say that—I’ll instead ask you how your day’s going? Is there anything wrong? I’ll still give you a bonus on the holidays. Sorry if it’s not enough. Dunk.