What’s going on? Srsly, can we talk for a second?
Up until recently, I really felt like we were on the same page. Your decisions have been so spot-on in the past, that for a time I trusted your choices completely. You’ve definitely been responsible for a lot of free dinners. However, this morning I woke up next to a stranger with a tattoo of an angry skull on his shoulder (which was staring back at me when I opened my eyes) who wouldn’t leave my apartment until I bought him a pizza.
Girl, that’s not okay. I forgave you for choosing the guy who sold a fur coat for drugs, but I’m sensing a pattern now. I’m concerned about your disregard for our emotional well-being and general lack of discrimination, lately. Perhaps you’re still upset that I didn’t know what you looked like until I was 18 (and to think you were only a hand mirror away, all along), or that I once made you hang out around that guy with dreadlocks, but the power has gone to your head.
We consistently end up in gritty, below ground-level dwellings when I leave you in charge. Just last week you had me follow a man into a prison-themed bar (seriously, the bathrooms were called “The Warden’s Office”). For once, I’d love to kick back, have a couple of drinks, entrust the evening’s festivities to you and find ourselves in a bathroom that has toilet paper (at least!).
I’ve always put your best interests at heart–except for that weird period where I tried abstinence as a part of a cleanse. (We’ve discussed at length how sorry I am about that.) There’s no need to continue to perpetually punish me for botched cheap-o Brazilians, or that time I took you for a swim in Lake Ontario. Let’s wake up in a mansion, Sarah. Let’s ride in a Ferrari! Oh gosh, girl, think about what we’d be able to accomplish in a day if we found ourselves in an apartment with a bidet! Who cares about toilet paper then! It’s a whole other world, Sarah!
If we work together, I think we could do something great, you and me. Think about it! We could do anything–start a company, write a memoir… we could call it, like, the Vagina Monol- oh, shit.
With fondlest regards,