See that shit? That’s a “scene kid.” I never knew they had a name. I guess I thought that was just what happened to kids who witnessed murders as children and went on to get picked last in gym class. And then, uh, badly misunderstand all the little nuances of human interaction, leading to alienation and self-loathing. I’m having a hard time pushing the funny through all the sadness. Suffice it to say that these kids make your everyday, run-of-the-mill strenuous efforts to look messy.
You stole a package the mailman left on my front stoop this afternoon. He’d hid it behind a post, so you would have had to opened the front gate to my yard in order to climb my porch steps and steal this box that was addressed specifically to me.
I know the box was there because the mailman knocked hard on my door when he delivered it, but I was so tired I didn’t bring the box back inside. I left it there because I never thought anyone would have the nerve to come onto my property, much less steal my mail!
Do you have any idea how tired I’ve been lately? Well, you probably know by now. Given the fact that the package contained children’s clothing, more specifically used-clothes sized 2T (TODDLER). I doubt the clothes fit you, and I doubt you have any use for them.
I’m tired because my kid constantly runs around sticking his fingers in electrical sockets, even though I explain to him it’s dangerous. I’m tired because he kicks at his crib bars all night. I’m also broke. My friend sent me her kid’s old clothes so I wouldn’t have to buy NEW clothes for the little monster who runs around my home breaking everything he can get his hands on. My friend’s kid is just four months older than my kid. I ask you to think of the all trouble SHE had to go to in order to mail that box of used clothes! HER kid was no doubt running around HER house, destroying everything he could get his hands on . . . can you imagine how hard it was for my friend to finally take that box (the one you stole off my front porch) to the post office, all the while HER kid was destroying everything he could get his hands on?
I hope you know that when you die and meet our Heavenly Father, and you say, “Gee, I’m so sorry for every bad thing I’ve ever done,” HE is going to pull that box from out a cloud sitting beside him, open it up, and admire all the tiny shirts and pants and pajamas. And then he’s going to fold them up very carefully, with a very stern look on his face. And then he’s going to turn to look at you with a fearsome expression, and HE will say, “Why, I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t admit you to Heaven. A child suffered because of you. Her mother, who was a mother in need, suffered because of you. And YOU are the reason I am so ashamed of my children.
And it’s then that the elevator doors to Hell will open to receive you. I assure you its descent will be swift.
But were you also to tired to then file a complaint with the postal carrier? But yet not to tired to post a useless message on Craigslist. Hmm? Lady, next time, just answer the freakin door!
We met at that kid from NYUs loft. He had about 30 people over. You kept complimenting me on my eyes and asking to feel my arms, and asking if I worked out. Anyways, towards the end of the night, you followed me into the bathroom when I was trying to take a piss, and gave me an incredible #$@$^. After I finished, you left the bathroom. By the time I had put my pants back on, and left the bathroom, you had left the party.
I have one of your converse sneakers. How did you walk home without it? If you read this- I really want to know your name. Maybe we can get together sometime and you can get your sneaker back.
If this was you, message me back what the tattoo on my left thigh says
It’s come to this now has it. Tip, girls that follow men into the bathroom to surprise them with “”, are not the same girls checking missed connections. They are in another bathroom with another unsuspecting, tattooed loser. Really, your thigh? How very sensitive and poetic, probably why she left the bathroom so quick. Come on man! Have you seen the other bathrooms in NYC. Who knows what urinals she’s been hiding in.
So it’s a Sunday afternoon, and you’re relaxing in your mahogany man-cave, flipping through your hand-copied 17th-century manuscript of the Book of Kells. Suddenly, the doorbell rings; it’s Burt Reynolds, the Old Spice Guy, and the Most Interesting Man in the World. Later, you’re two or three hands into a high-stakes game of hold ‘em – the $1 chips are worth $1,000 and the $10 chips are classic American sports cars – when Burt Reynolds suggests that he’s a little thirsty. Obviously, no standard beverage will do. You reach into a jewel-encrusted liquor cabinet, and you pull out one of these:
This is extreme Scottish beer maker BrewDog’s newest creation, “The End of History.” It’s a 55% ABV beer that combines high-octane badassery with small mammal taxidermy to create the most manly beverage possible. It’s also the Sugar Shack’s newest endorsement, despite costing $765. It’s named after a work of high philosophy called The End of History and the Last Man by Francis Fukuyama, and it’s probably bottled only by Navy SEALs who have summited Everest and made out with Queen Rania of Jordan at the same time.
The only reason why this post isn’t categorized under “Beer Reviews” is because we will never be able to buy it. You can’t see me, but I’m weeping softly into a throw pillow right now. Are you there, Burt? It’s me, Staker! Please, please bring this beer to us. Please. I’ll never ask for anything again.
“We met last night at Avenue at the bar. You were there by yourself, had a tab at the bar and drinking champagne. You told me you lived on 23rd and 10th.
I liked your shoes and your purse… you liked my shirt and my jeans/shoes combination. I was the Dominican pisces that lived in hell’s kitchen…
We both went to look for the bathroom and then I couldn’t find you again that night. I really digged your vibe and want to connect with you again.
If this is you let’s keep the vibe going and see where it takes us..?”
Dear Dominican Pisces,
Ah..the “I need to find the bathroom ploy”! We lose you suckers to that one every time. Drinking champagne could care less about your jeans/shoes combination and are more interested in your stock portfolio/wallet size combo. Take your “vibe” back to 1976 where it belongs and give up on this one. She is never coming back from the bathroom.
She probably doesn’t like your kind anyway…