Fuck That Bitch

all up on her pedestal

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Colette is a real crunchy granola cunt.

Everything with her had to be natural. Food, childbirth, her bush.

Seriously, what bitch doesn’t wax her pussy? It’s like she tries too hard. Like natural is the only way she can feel above everyone.

Anyway, fuck that bitch. I have a real woman now. One who puts time into making herself sexy. For me. Because I’m worth a sexy bitch.

I wouldn’t give a shit about that crunchy granola cunt at all other than the fact that I had a kid with her. How stupid was I a few years ago?

Anything for the ass, I guess.

She wasn’t that bad when we were fucking. She changed after we split.

I have to see that crunchy granola cunt every other weekend so I can pick up my daughter.

At least it’s really easy to annoy her. All you have to do – in case anyone else needs to piss her off – is give her kid something that smells strong. You know, like perfume or hairspray. Anything scented. That really crawls up her natural ass.

And it’s perfect because nobody would ever guess I’m doing it just to piss her off.

The biggest problem with having a kid with some crunchy granola cunt – other than being told by the courts that I have to pay that fucking bitch monthly – is the disruption to my family.

Having my daughter here isn’t the disruption. She’s cute as hell and smart as fuck. I know now that nurture does not wipe out nature, no matter what my ex says.

But, no matter how much like me my daughter is, there’s still the stench of crunchy granola bitch on her when we bring her home.

The kid never gets to watch tv. Her mother cuts her hair short like she doesn’t give a fuck about helping her fit in. And she asks a lot of questions.

Every weekend she’s over, my wife is exhausted by Saturday afternoon, and we can’t have that.

We think there’s something wrong with that kid. All that energy and bullheadedness. That crunchy granola cunt ruined my child.

She doesn’t want to play video games and she’s scared of the ATV – like a five year old knows what’s best for herself. Six? Seven? Anyway, like a kid knows anything.

And I just know Colette is over there laughing at me. Raising my kid all crunchy granola just to make my weekends almost impossible.

Well, fuck her! My wife’s son just got diagnosed with ADHD so we started giving The Stubborn One his meds to calm her down.

I got sick of telling her to calm down. Relax. Chill. Fuck.

But, holy shit, those meds had the opposite effect. My daughter got hyper as hell while my wife’s kid got chill.

I threw my hands up in the air. I was ready to give the fuck up. Let her run wild. Let my wife deal with her.

If my cunt of an ex-wife tries to come after me for being a granola hater, I’ll find some way of ¬†fucking her over.

I hate the thought, though. And right when I was about to give up, I had a genius idea. Depression meds.

It’s perfect. That kid is calm as fuck now on my weekends.

sonnet 747

( / )

O, what death was here
unheeded smelt
tiny dragonfly downed
belly up in the wake of it
now whole crawfish
perch sway reed stilled
i thought i saw you in a pub

without netting

sea side

Amber approached dating the way Hillary answered questions about Monsanto.

Top of her list of dos and don’ts was the directive: take no shit.

She had rules. (Don’t raise your eyebrows, everyone has rules.)

Not impossible expectations, mind you. Rules. No talking to married men, no falling for obvious bullshit, magicians were okay but no illusionists.

No blurting out “I’m a mermaid” too early.

And, of course, being an actual mermaid, she had to keep an eye out for fishermen and bewitched boys.

One night, after yet another plate of nachos with a bewitched, Amber went to her girlfriend’s instead of her lonely apartment.

Sara poured glasses of pinot grigio and offered Amber a smoke to numb the sadness.

Amber tucked her bare feet under her bum, not caring anymore about wrinkling her one and only little black dress.

“Sweetie, I get it. Before I met Paul I was about to give up.”

“You guys met before you moved here. This is a fisherman town.”

They looked at each other and then burst out in laughter at the absurdity of it all.

Sara pointed her cigarette at Amber. “You, my sweet, need to go on vacation.”

Amber looked into her glass.

“What did I say?”

She sighed. “Nothing, it’s just – I met George in Mexico four years ago.”

“The one you compare, like, every guy to?”

“I do not!”

“Need more wine?”

“Yes. And pyjamas or something. I’m so done wearing this bra.”

“You know where my clothes are. Paul’s asleep.”

I slipped out of my dress in Sara’s ensuite. In the mirror, taking off the dramatic but not too dramatic sexy eye effect, I saw my twelve year old self staring back at me.

This must have been the expression they saw through the screen door.

I rolled my eyes at her.

Downstairs, Sara was putting a pizza in the oven.

“You feel more relaxed now.”

“I wasn’t paying attention, but I guess I do.”

“Come sit down while this cooks.”

Sara hums along to a song on the radio.

“I feel like that girl with her face pressed against the mesh.”

“Oh, Amber, not her. It’s that bad?”

“George.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t really know. I fell too fast, I guess. And when we were back in Canada, he started acting cagey.”

She knew what was coming.

“I asked if he was married and he was all nooooooo, like the worst liar in the world or I was just really tuned in.”

Sara inhales and lets out a pained breath.

“But he wasn’t married. He was with someone. Committed. And therefore unavailable. I told him to call me if it didn’t work out.”

“And he never called?”

“That’s the worst part. He did call. The night they split.”

“And?”

“I told him to wash the scent of her from his skin first.”

Sara made a low noise that translated into ‘oh shit’.

“I know.”

I started to cry. Sara opened her arms. I tucked myself into her embrace and let it out.

“He never came back.”

“Oh, sweetie, shhh, it’ll be okay.”

“But I loved him.”

“I know, sweetie, I know.”