Shirley Temper

My company had a BBQ today. Why bitches go down hovering and not eat?! I was eating BY MYSELF. God I hate women that are timid around food. I mean why you messing around? Eating is a competition and don't get into the kitchen if you can't handle the heat, otay? And if you aren't going to eat, get the hell out of my way. I don't want a bunch of Lindsay Lohan Melissa Joan Olsens in between me and a plate of brownies.

And then there is that guy. I am standing behind this man wearing a long Hawaiian shirt with a soul patch while he carefully lines his hot dog with pickles for like five minutes. That is five minutes I don't want to be waiting, poindexter. I am not your girlfriend, we are not "making love," and I am not underneath you waiting to die while you ask me, "am i hurting you?" while you thrust away in your socks and Birkenstocks. Fuck you and get the hell out of my way! I want pickles on this veggie dog that is kinda gross and doesn't even bear a passing resemblance to meat. And the whole while they are playing Bonnie Rait. I am waiting for pickles listening to "i can't make you love me." That is the song that turns an innocent trip to the grocery store for milk into a day marked by me ending up sobbing on the tile floor in the middle of the dairy section questioning my will to live while clutching white bread to my breast. Why the fuck are they playing this at a BBQ whose ostensible goal has more to do with corporate bonding than mass suicide? Will someone tell me?!