Vomit Sunrise

The comment left to Boy from Girl online 25 Jan 2006:
Who knew following someone's car around for two hours could be so much fun?

The email Boy received from Dirty Bitch 28 Feb 2006:
On a side note I was reading comments on your page and noticed one from Girl about following a car around for two hours. Would that have happened to be my car that kept you two so entertained?

For the record Dirty Bitch's car was most certainly not the car in reference. Girl and Boy have better things to do with their time than follow Dirty Bitch around. Unlike Dirty Bitch, Boy and Girl are not small minded little children.(this post aside). Even if Dirty Bitch's boyfriend asked Girl to follow her around because she is a lying cheating, well, Dirty Bitch, this does not mean that Girl and Boy care what or who she does in the backseat of her generic jalopy.

And the vomit rises in the back of my throat as morning sunshine breaks over the horizon. Dirty Bitch sucks. Sucks hard.

Response sent from Boy to Dirty Bitch in reference to her question:
No. Girl was following me because we took separate cars on the adventure. (insert details about the evening's events here) Honestly, Dirty Bitch, do I seem so pathetic that it would be plausible to imagine I would follow your car around for two hours just to amuse Girl? Are you kidding?

The pure and utter disdain is what really shoves the toothbrush handle into the deepest recesses of my throat. Fuck your disdain. Because, Boy, you'd happily string Dirty Bitch's head on a clothesline if you thought it would please Girl. Now, anyway.

Now. Little word, big meaning.
This thing will never die.
Dirty Bitch will never cease to exist.

Please excuse Girl while she empties the contents of her stomach into the nearest available receptacle.

The wistful-eyed skirt chasing is an inescapable fact. The flirting and the simple fact that Dirty Bitch has to exist in the annals of history is a fact I barely tolerate. My status as Consolation Prize will remain a heavy question I probaby don't ever really want an answer to. The pictures and emails to Mother sicken me a bit (in lack of explanation accompanying pictures, its clear Dirty Bitch must have been a subject worthy of discussion, which is more than could be said of Yours Truly), but I do reasonably well at not giving it too much thought.

But the sheer disdain contained in that half-paragraph will burn in my belly for a long time.


Fuck you, Tits McGee.
When the barkeep shouts his last call and switches on the harsh lights of reality, you're nothing more than a distant faded memory.