You, again.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget I am a living breathing human. 

Occasionally I feel like a pork chop in the butcher’s window, just waiting. 

Have I ever told you being single is harder at the weekend? 

Me saying “don’t get it on my face” made it instantly soft. 

I’m sorry if I should be less vocal with any complaints. I’ve never been an extra-marital fuck. 

My pleasure is often impeded by wondering what your kids look like, so please stop assuming I can come on demand.

Have I ever told you being single is like being trapped in a room with yourself? And there are no windows to gaze out of, only piles of dirty clothes and empty voids.

I want to get sucked into a portal, eat ice cream on the beach, and then go fuck something. 

It’s hard to stop wondering why you haven’t called.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll go throw myself off a bridge to check I’m still alive, if that’s not too dramatic for you.

Maybe you’ll stop being an arsehole and we can all move on.

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