You see, 2013, it’s not me, it’s you.
Things have been pretty shitastic between the two of us. Our sordid relationship is going into it’s fourth month, and you’ve had more opportunity for a turn around than reasonably afforded most, yet you haven’t wavered in your shitasticness.
If it weren’t for chronology, I would have dumped you long ago and drunk dialed 2008 for a pick-me-up.
To be fair, it has been since early 2012 since I’ve had a full night’s sleep. (And that wasn’t your fault, it was a natural consequence of unprotected sex.) So, perhaps, I am not seeing you as clearly as I should. I mean, there was that amazing, toasted ham sandwich I had a couple of weeks ago, and I did my come to The Walking Dead experience.
Actually, if I were to start writing down things in your favor: You aren’t 1993 so I’m not in junior high anymore, Boogie stopped peeing in her pants and on my furniture, The Sequel is no longer occupying the space between my ribs and hips, and Nickleback hasn’t released anything new. That’s hardly enough to inspire a long love affair.
So, we’re just going to leave it at this: I can do better. Trust me. And if you think I’m going to put up with your craptastic attitude for another eight months…while I technically have to just put up with it, I am going to make you eventually leave me. You have until December 31st to shape up or ship out, buster or else…
you’re officially on notice,