You are the relative a whole family has to be nice to but nobody fucking likes.
You’re the kid a mother makes her child invite to the party even though that kid might live in a wall and eat crickets.
You’re the favorite pair of jeans that won’t fit for 5 to 7 days each month.
You’re the bananas that turn brown the day after you buy them.
On Monday mornings, you are the fresh hell that rises with the burnt toast.
You’re the wet-from-the-shower hair that freezes to straw in January.
Shit, you ARE Monday mornings.
You’re the migraine that puts a hot, vivacious woman in bed alone by 8 pm on a Friday.
You suck more than a whore at a frat party.
You blow harder than Fox News.
Yet I can’t always avoid the danger and the beauty of the thousands of you in the world, like violent storms over barren deserts.
One of these days, I’m going to drag you out to the middle of the desert after tying a pointed, tinfoil hat to your head. Then I can watch you burn.
But then I might miss you, the way a divorcee misses her piece of shit ex-husband, the way a mother misses a child she never got to know.
Let me unlock the chains you’ve wrapped around my throat and maybe this time I’ll lose the key.
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