Hard Feelings

I got the idea for this little essay because Bonnie Raitt's 'Something To Talk About' randomly popped into my head at like two in the morning last night. It is a response as to why maybe we shouldn't give them something to talk about. Or at least that what its intent is. I reality, this is me still being pissed at my ex-girlfriend from ten years ago with some bits of just random fiction interspersed. Also, I don't think the two people in the song actually had sex. I think that's the whole point of the song. Bonnie thinks they should start doing it, right? So, anyway, I guess I'm not sure what this is exactly.

You want to know why I don't want to give them something to talk about? Well here are a few reasons.

You have poor taste in music. You listen to show tunes and Hank Williams, Jr. and acts from the nineties that I was certain were either broken up or dead. Sure, I like that "Sex and Candy" song as much as anyone, but who knew those guys made so many albums?

You have too many stuffed animals on your bed. It makes me feel like I was about to have sex with a child. That that somehow turns me on even more really freaks me out.

Your gerbil is evil. I don't like the way he looks at me. Like he's going to enter me somehow, use my heart as his exercise wheel, my intestines as that weird tunnel system he loves so much and make a bed out of the cedar chips that is my liver. I assume because of the amount of beer I drink, my liver smells like cedar chips.

Your body temperature is poorly regulated. Just because it is 3 degrees outside doesn't mean it has to be 90 degrees inside. Just put on a fucking sweater and leave the thermostat at 70. And put on some thicker socks, your feet are freezing.

Your bedroom practices are lacking. If I like something that you're doing, you'll know. If I didn't tell you to stop, it doesn't mean I like it. Maybe, I'm just trying to be nice. And unless specifically directed, stay north of the perineum.

Your parents are insane. Calling lunch "dinner" and dinner "supper"? Who does that? Also, there is no "r" in the word "wash", let your mother know, please, before someone poops in her mouth and "warshes" the poops down with their fists.

Your cat is dumb. I saw that fucker fall off the bed once while he was sleeping. What an idiot.

You drive so close to the curb I'm convinced you and your car's alignment have some long standing, personal beef and you are just looking to fuck it up. And when I point out that I am pretty terrified you are going to hit a curb, or possibly that telephone pole or that old lady walking a Schnauzer, don't over correct. Stay either to the left or right of the lane markings, not on top of them. They are not there to track where you're going, like Jeffy in The Family Circus, they are used as a tool of separation. Think of them as a wall, you wouldn't drive on top of a wall, would you? Well, you probably would.

You are bad at social situations. When someone asks if you have seen a good movie lately, do not speak. 'Failure to Launch' wasn't funny and stop telling people it was. It has Terry Bradshaw in it. Terry. Bradshaw. Seriously, stop it.

Your friends are all ugly and stupid. Can you believe Melissa wouldn't have a three-way with us, what a bitch.

In fact, I don't think I even want to be friends with you anymore. I'd like to say I hope you have a nice life, but really I hope you die. Now if you fix all of these things, maybe we can get back together. Oh what's that, you'll found someone you like better? Cool, I hope he likes devil rodents and you playing with his butt.