Thorned Roses & Melted Chocolates

“As time went on, and as my wonderful manager, Lloyd, is not always around to overhear someone calling me beautiful and sarcastically interject with, “Oh, Iola never gets that AT ALLLL”, I’ve come up with some pretty decent approaches:
“I’m gay.”
“The hot waitress is off today. Wait for her. She’ll be here tomorrow.”
“I’m not allowed to prey on my customers, sorry.”
“I’m not gay.”
If they laugh, maybe you’ll get a tip. If they don’t, well, let’s hope their table leaves soon and you get a ten-seater with rich nuns with a penchant for alcohol, but Jesus is still bae. “

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Lay Me To Rest

“No doubt sparked by my gloriously inappropriate mother asking, “What would you do if I died?”, and having just painfully dreamt that she actually did, I’ve decided to leave this here, an open letter – in my mental sanctuary, so that at no point, ever, will there be any question as to what is to be done, or any things left unsaid.”

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Spit Poison, Strike

“What inside your mind fuels such rage? Why do you want to break bones? What about physically and poisonously expressing your seething rage by means of intimidating and scarring those littler than you makes you feel better? Is it about power? Does it make you feel stronger, or like more of a man? Do you enjoy the stinging of the slapping, punching and the kicking?”

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