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I can't hang with you boyfriend.

I can't hang with you boyfriend, I fall short of your expectations. I'd love to bang you boyfriend, you're fine as all hell, but your cock stock would plummet and other girls with bangs would scoff you into social oblivion. 

I listen to ghetto pop music and fantasize spontaneous dance routines with limited to no choreographic knowledge. Strictly Beyonce, Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey and Katy Perry.  I like that kind of music- everybody does. You only like the popular hits from way back when, now that their popularity is obsolete. You shit on music everybody sings along to. But you're shitting to give yourself leverage, so you can look down upon the common people from the mountain of shit you sit on. At least my ass is clean.

You don't dance. You're like the alternate ending to Footloose, left on the cutting room floor waiting to fulfill your ironic destiny to shop for the clothes you donated to the salvation army. 

You don't watch T.V. And if you do, its always a documentary. Treat yourself to garbage once in a while. Your parents could afford to trick out your soapbox but you're just as miserable as the wretches networks pay to be atrocious. 

Indulge in your lowest common pleasure once in a while. Laugh when you watch Hot Tub Time Machine; don't stop to think about it. Read a shitty magazine and revel in its total idiocy instead of preaching about the literacy rate. 

I'd love to let you in on the joke but you read it like a bible. 


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'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

'There's a bullet for you, just in case.'

Hope had left the gun on the table.

A week earlier, drunk off self-pity, she had taken it out of its case and walked to the kitchen, where she stuck the barrel in her mouth and proceeded to take pictures of herself to send to Ray.

In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…