Monday, February 23, 2015

Cuntosaurus...the dinosaur that lived.

I don’t want this to turn into another commentary of bitches bitching about other bitches. But for real, I am over the cuntiness that envelopes my life sometimes.

I’d love to have a large group of lady friends that I adore and can hang out with and have a circle of trust where farting and break outs and eating really disgusting fat kid food is accepted and appreciated. However I’m pretty sure this dream lives on “Ain’t Gonna Fucking Happen” island along with all the decent dudes and unicorns and midgets that don’t run away from me. In real life, I think it’s super rare to have a group of girls that doesn’t contain at least one Cunty Carol.

Cunty Carol is the girl that gives you a back-handed compliment and then hugs you. She hugs you so tight that even if you went with your instinct to bitch slap her so hard her teeth would fall out the back of her head, you're physically incapable due to the bear hug that's happening. By the time she releases your body, you're so grateful it stopped that you let it pass and satisfy yourself by picturing her super fat with acne. We know her. We hate her. You might even be her. 

My new favorite thing that the Cunty Carol's of the world do is compliment your ex-boyfriend. Listen, I don’t know any female in the entire world who wants to hear positive things about the dude that ruined their life for a given period of time. I don’t care how “adult” you are and how much you’ve gotten over the life ruiner and you’re all happy and zen and mother fucking peace to the world and all that bullshit. You’re not a human if you actually wish them the best and hope their life gets better after you. It’s something that you say so people can admire how positive and grown up you are. (Oh look at Jenn, she’s just so great and such a positive person!) I can pretend that this empty orifice in my chest area has a heart and smile and make pleasant noises when someone says an ex is doing well. (Wow, I’m so glad to hear he has a great job and awesome new girlfriend that he’s super into. Sooooo happy for them!) But truly, all I want to do is punch you right in your face and let Mike Tyson bite off all your ears. And women know this. We all know it’s fucked up. Yet we’ve still got those Cunty Carol's that not just cross the line, that bitch squats and takes a shit on the other side of the line. Next time you open your twatty mouth and try to tell me that I’m wrong about this person that I slept with, basically lived with, and spent all my time with here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to kick you straight in your downstairs. Yup. I hope my toe goes right into your clitoris and sprains it. I hope every time you let a gross dude put it in you, you remember me and you shudder and cry a little.  

I’ve even experienced this from friends that I don’t think are intentionally trying to be an asshole. Maybe they are, hence my female trust issues. It’ll be a somewhat innocent comment about something they’ve seen on Facebook or Twitter or whatever cool social media is happening today. But sometimes those little pieces of information feel like a fucking punch to the throat. Where you feel your voice go up super high and this psychotic smile plasters on your face and you start trying to serve people food and drinks and hold someone’s baby. Anyone’s baby. GIVE ME A FUCKING BABY BEFORE I BURN THIS PLACE TO THE GROUND!!!!!!!!!! If I don’t follow my ex on Facebook, wouldn’t that be a pretty big indication I don’t want to know what he’s doing? I check obituaries so I’ll know if the mother fucker is dead. That’s about all the information I need. And that’s just so I know what bars I can start frequenting again. (Yup, I went there. Not sorry.)

So to all the Cunty Carol's of the world, next time you feel yourself opening that hole in your face that should really only have dicks in it so you can’t speak, imagine me kicking you. Hard. In your downstairs. Because I’ve had enough of your shit and woman power and feminism and all that is great. But if that means I have to sit back and let you intentionally Regina George me, NOPE.

If you consider me a friend and you’re reading this and know you’ve done this, feel free to buy me a drink next time we’re out and apologize. Also, you might want to check and see if I’m wearing studded boots.