Thinking of Useless
You threw a temper tantrum, as often women who’ve run off their looks do when someone says that alien word to their ears.
No.
You flew into an instant rage.
“What the hell is your deal, you prick! I’m throwing myself at you. Do you know how many other guys would kill to be in your place, you sorry son of a bitch, goddamn! You’re such a worthless bastard!”
“I don’t know, princess. I mean, they may reconsider that offer when they find out you’re married. But hey, some guys love living on the edge, but as for me, I’m a tad bit off to the idea of contracting lead poisoning. But I’m old-fashioned like that, ya know.”
“Oh my God, quit being such a bitch! Get on a plane and come down here and fuck me. Let a beautiful woman love you, you fucking idiot!”
I almost did a spit take at that one, and although enraged, I could not resist throwing gas upon her fiery temper.
“Well, sweetheart, if you find one that has a thirst for alcoholic, overweight writers and doesn’t charge too much, send her my way.”
“Fuck you, asshole! Why do you think of every woman as some sort of whore?”
I took a sip of my freshly mixed cocktail.
“Honey, I didn’t mean to imply you’re a whore.
“I mean, you don’t charge anything…”
Abruptly, the call was dropped. Must have lost service, or maybe I had hit a nerve.
As the music played in the background, she sent a text with a nude selfie.
“When you finally grow a pair and come down, I will be waiting, dickhead!”
I read it and had to fight the urge to bust out laughing.
“Well, I wouldn’t hold my breath on that, or you will probably turn blue there, Smurfette.”
There was radio silence for a second, but like with most attention-spoiled, overgrown children, that void had to be filled. And she was just the batshit-insane gal for the job.
As the phone rang, I didn’t even need to look to see who was calling as I let it go straight to voicemail.
As it was followed by a text:
“Alright, cut the shit. I know you love me. Everyone does… so when are you coming down?”
As no sooner had I read the words, “Crazy” began to play from the jukebox.
Trust me, the irony was not lost upon me.
I blocked her number, ordered a double, and bought the bartender a shot.
And toasted that unnamed writer’s husband.
Because if anyone deserved a toast for putting up with that cuckoo bird’s shit, it was that poor bastard.
To better times, spilt liquor, and wasted dreams.
Cheers…
