A Virus

I’m gonna make a request and it’s not just so I can rip you apart for the fun of it – it’s coming from a real place. I need you to alternate anecdotes that you think would make good sitcom ideas with actual Anoush + You conversations. You know, pretend we’re actual people and stuff. All I fucking hear from you are writing ideas ‘cause burburburburbur, you’re a writer. NOT like you don’t MENTION it every five seconds or anything… Oh my God, if writing were gayness, you’d be a drag queen – a bad one, a half-assy one. With your writer wig, writer beads, writer boa. Nothing against drag – it’s an analogy.

EWWWH MY GAWWWD (my fancy shmancy voice) you fast for lent, and you believe that the female should be respected and not degraded like your fellow men do, and your god and how life is about giving yourself to him, and how the world has no more morals and that YOU are the one who’s going to change that. muah muah and muah muah muah (Not kisses, more like evil over-dramatic embellishments.)

I like no morals. No-Morals makes my art better.

Do me a favor – don’t talk to me about your poetry, or the funny things you said when you were high, or your new favorite play. I hate your conversation. I bite into it, hang it up, then throw a dagger into it while it’s still sorta alive. So, save it for someone who’s impressed by cabbage softening over a high flame.

Then I realize, maybe, I’m a rotten person who likes to de-bone delicate people. NO. That’s not it. ‘Cause you’re not delicate. You’re just on my territory. I fast, too and you don’t hear me talking about how once this fast is over I’m gonna have my mom make me this, this, and this. I don’t let my mom feed me NUFFIN’!

Thing is when I suffer, you don’t fucking HEAR about it. But I’m gonna talk now – You’re on my sweet motherfucking territory, and I get possessive over my small planet.

–Duck Dodgers.

*And, Because, Also, I have issues of my own.


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