It’s #NationalGirlfriendDay, a sacred religious holiday probably invented by a YouTube mascara blogger who is also a third trimester fetus whose charms will never translate to TV or film but will be a millionaire for life. It’s also the day after you were fired from the job you earned through hard work, devotion, and not being willing to suck your own cock. And like any other day, National Girlfriend Day is a day on which I am in love with you even though you have as yet refused to make me your girlfriend, or to talk to me ever. Granted, we’ve never met, but that’s no excuse, Mooch. Because I’ve loved you ever since the day two weeks ago I found out that you existed.
I am a Sicilian-American woman from New Jersey. I’m other stuff, too, like a feminist, but now that I know you’re single I am all the way over that spinsterhood justification movement. All my cultural and religious training has taught me how lock down a guy like you and stay with you no matter what, until you expire of the stress-related disease I cause you, at which point I live off your money and wear expensive black mourning dresses that I buy with your money. If this sounds like a dreary loveless existence for me, don’t worry! I’ll still be full of near-erotic affection for two males: our priest, who manages the local abuse ‘n’ guilt franchise, and our son, who will be forever crippled by the transference of my love for you onto him. HE CAN NEVER DIVORCE ME, MOOCH! I’m his mother forever, no matter what! Anyway, he’ll be an altar boy and if you don’t show up for his First Holy Communion, I will end you – not literally (sweet merciful death won’t claim you until I’ve worn you down to a stump of a Mooch) but psychologically. Also I will have an emotional affair with a nun.
Anyway, why am I not your girlfriend yet? I am 36. I like money. I love curse words. Damn! Hell! Dickcunting asscumming fuckwagon! What are we waiting for? Our firstborn can just be a series of (male) vowels strung together in the vague shape of a person, but in the cutest fuckin’ onesie! Awwww. Our secondborn can be a bunch of (male) dicks stacked on top of each other, but in a tiny Yankees hat! Our thirdborn can be some shitty girl, I guess.
Together, we can further the kind of homophobic, racist, sexist agenda you and your boy Diesel Tbonez so love. I assume you call your former boss Diesel Tbonez. If not, why not? What is wrong with you? Get over here, Ant’nee, and bring me a goddamn tray of lasagna I made with my own hands like a fucking martyr so I can smash it in your face and scream to God, “WHY DID YOU PUNISH ME WITH THIS PIECE OF SHIT HUSBAND FROM HELL?!” in front of our son because THAT, as you well know from your time psychologically fellating Trump, is EXACTLY the kinda love you loooove.
The only woman who will ever understand you
Wonkette is ad-free and supported ONLY by Readers Like YOU!
ALSO, this is your OPEN THREAD!