Dear monthly guest,
It’s not me. It’s you. Something’s gotta give.
I consider myself to be a pretty hospitable person. I generally give people the benefit of the doubt when they don’t agree with me, and I have handed out so many extra chances in my life that I give worn doormats a run for their money. But I’ve had it with you.
I’m not exaggerating when I say that you make me insane. I become a certifiable nutcase when you rear your head. I walk off from cash registers without paying for my coffee and then tell the perplexed cashier that I, and I quote, “must have a case of the Mondays.” WTF, FLO. You make me sound like a Cathy comic strip. You make me believe that since I forgot to buy an extra half gallon of whole milk for the baby this week, she will have osteoporosis by the time she goes to kindergarten. Most recently, you convinced me that I was dying of cancer and had only three months to live. I don’t appreciate the lies you tell me, especially when they involve my slow, painful demise.
Also, I will have you know that I love my kid more than anything else in the world and am doing everything I can to ensure that she gets the best of me. When you convince me that I’m not good enough for her simply because I don’t remember to brush her teeth every morning, you are not helping.
I always know that you’ll come, but you’re never on time. Never, ever, ever. You are consistently early or late. When you are late, you scare the piss out of me because I think you’re not coming at all and that another human who is bound to destroy any shred of sanity I have left is on the way instead. When you are early, I am never prepared for you. I didn’t go to the store to buy all that crap you always demand throughout your stay. You come when I’m wearing white leggings on my tan sofa. A little warning would have been nice, you destructive fiend.
You rob from me the only thing I can consistently look forward to: sleep. Sweet, luscious sleep. You drain me of all my energy throughout the day and then once it’s time for me to lay my head down and shut it all off, you keep me up all night worrying about my supposed case of the cancers. Not even coffee can counteract you.
And what the heck is going on with the acne? Last time you came, I got a giant volcano pimple in my armpit. My armpit. You are not allowed there, wench.
So we’re over. I’m fully prepared to get Depo shots and be done with you altogether. You have disrupted my life for far too long, and my husband agrees (although he’s too scared of me to actually admit it).
Peace out. Take your time on introducing yourself to my daughter, too.
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