crazy-ass-humorWhat are you supposed to say?

No one forced you to buy a lifetime subscription to Constant Brutality magazine, what were you thinking?

Didn’t you see? Didn’t you know? Didn’t you think?
Were you desperate?  Woozy from low blood sugar? Drugged? Mistakenly informed you had only 17 minutes to live? Damaged to a point that sharp objects should be removed from your reach?

Sure you use words like “narcissist” and “sociopath” now, after the breakup, just like pretty much everyone else on the planet.  Your bitterness does not change the words from insults to diagnoses, and remember that big party with the white dress and the tiny fancy hot dogs and the conga line? You didn’t seem crushed by manipulation and lies and savage punishment when you were tucking those gift envelopes down the front of the sparkly bust of your gown, what gives? Certainly not the sparkly bust of your gown, clenched around your torso like an iron maiden torture device.

What are you supposed to say?

That lies told continuously sound like reality until you punch a hole through them?
That even Hannibal Lector could seem charming right up until he ripped the skin off your face?
That maybe your SAT scores were accurate, and you just aren’t that bright?

Sure. Or.
You say that if you were going to sacrifice your life you would do it theatrically by throwing yourself into a volcano.
You say that anyone who invalidates your experience should step away, lest someone rip the skin off their face.
You say no more talking, because you have already spent too much energy on the unworthy and not enough binge-watching Bo-jack Horseman.
You say “hello tomorrow!” and take a giant bite.

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