pretty petty

I am rocking Farrah Fawcett hair and the attitude of a woman who is being kicked out of her workspace by the most repressed bitch she has ever known in her entire life.

Imagine this: you have fundamental issues with the art a person is creating in a space that YOU ARE SUBLETTING TO THEM OF YOUR OWN FREE WILL and you don't say shit to them about it for months. Months! Imagine!

Imagine being such a fucking sucker. 

Imagine harboring a list of at least five things you don't want that person to do and not mentioning any of them until one day you see five Ball jars in a sink and then you lose your fucking mind. Act like a real mental case about the whole thing. 

Imagine sending me six paragraph texts when the deal is already done. And then I only send back slightly laughing smiley faces.

One thing you don't have to imagine is me giving her the satisfaction of seeing how my eyeballs roll almost entirely out of my head on to my studio floor where they would get covered in thread and splinters and lord knows what else. Punk ass, hater ass vibes would be my guess. That will never fucking happen.

This is just some excess rage. I am venting. It's therapeutic.

I'm fine. I'll be great. I have enough room at home, tbh. I'm just wasting it.

But it's so delicious to have a place like this to write this stuff down. Because saying it all to no one at all isn't an option. And my therapist only gets paid for an hour every two weeks. And my real life friends. Well. I don't have many of them but we have better things to talk about. 

But here. Here is the perfect place for this.

Thank you for listening. I don't think this is covered by my health insurance but I'll pay you through Klarna or some shit.