it was the worst fight of our lives, him and i: born of a stomach-ache and suddenly sprung to epic proportions.
i screamed fuck you and quivered my door in its frame and cried and cried until mascara ran down my arms.
afterwards all i could think of to do was wash the dishes (violently. slammingly.) and my fingers puckered angry red while i tried (his teapot his cups) not to break anything.
because hating him is the antithesis of all that i am, i needed to be someone else. to smudge my eyes and stride in fishnet tights (shortdressheelsandcleavage) and find some lonely businessman to love me for the night.
i'm still deciding.
1 comment:
to girl,
did you don the tights?
there's a motto i think goes love much fight fair. fight is okay, long as its fair. was it fair?
i want to put poo in a cake.
oh no.
love you.
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