If you disappoint your parents, guidance counselor, and all your unassuming mentors more than fifteen times this season, then make sure number sixteen doesn’t have a damn thing to do with Melissa. Or Steph. Molly McPolly.
So I guess you’d be tempted to admire the sorts of names she gets away with using.
But trust me. Trust the guys who are still in love, but who are just barely enlightened enough to understand that even though it’s technically all her fault, all the live long fucking day, no should still mean no.
The deep bruises you wake up with, every other time you go to sleep with her, will have to mean whatever they end up meaning to you in their own delightfully, needlessly complicated way.
Just don’t. Don’t even imagine that she thinks an actual phone call is actually charming in this disgruntled, city-lights-for-ghost-stories era of ours.
Don’t hold open the door for her, and then imagine that good manners are going to save your parents from the burden of not getting grandchildren to emotionally blackmail, or worse.
This girl has a lawyer that she doesn’t pay, but who nonetheless keeps more firearms on hand than you would ever expect from a man who isn’t anti-black, or anti-gay, or anti-immigrant, so much as he’s just super, super pro-white.
She isn’t. That’s not the kind of crazy we’re talking about.
But she keeps him around. She’s also buried her mother a half-dozen times. That’s the kind of thing that we’re talking about.
It’s the kind of crazy that isn’t really fair, if you think about it, since the best of us aren’t really a hell of a lot better.
I’m not, and I’m holding your arm like this, talking to you in the most straightforward approach to mixed tongues I can manage like this, because I don’t think you are either.
And, brother, or whatever the case may be, I can’t recommend your plans to anyone who isn’t morally superior to an unrealistic impression of your secret hero.
Are you up for that kind of thing? Are you honestly listening at all?
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