Who Wants To Go Out On A Friday Anyway

I’m going to preface this very clearly. I’ve been feeling this way for probably four years and finally feel like talking about it. No, it’s not going to be pleasant and honestly I don’t care.

I stopped writing on here because God forbid I actually write emotionally, via blog I pay almost $1k for a year, getting advice from people I’ve talked off an amphetamine ledge who '“got their shit together”. There’s nothing worse in my world if it involves “HEY KERRY, here’s something you should try”, if it involves having a place to grow from a relationship or family member. If I need help, I go to the strip club or call my doctor. The grossest I can feel is when someone points out I’m being too manic/too much or they’re concerned based on my writing. Perhaps I am, but then don’t ask me why I don’t write.

I still write constantly, but why waste my words on people asking if I’m OK. I’m fine. That’s why I write, and you enjoy. If your world is so small that you can’t read and digest, and speak about a piece, by all means, please submit something. We’ll have amateur night at GRB. The whole reason I pay for this shit is so people like you can’t pay your mortgage, rub one out and ask if I’m OK. If I was OK by the way, I’d have a chemical engineering degree or like “challenge myself” with some bullshit white person hobby. Like making children or soufflé. I’m not OK, so I write, and this is how I find peace in a very fucked up world and head space. Getting the perfect cadence of verbiage on a page and seeing it hit properly makes me OK. You are a guest in this blog. Shut the fuck up and take your shoes off. I’m doing you all a favor sharing things I think you can swallow. My journal is so much more beautiful. And then there is another place I write. People thinking I’m not writing because I’m not posting is exactly why you’re stoked you finally are in a long term relationship with Monster Energy drinks and kidney stones and mortgage payments and get to talk down on someone expressing themselves, so that maybe more people don’t spiral. You checking on me makes you look absolutely ridiculous. I’ve written probably ten posts over the years that I’m just going to put here and make as uncomfortable as possible for people so that there may be a realization of this affected Kerry and because of you, she grew into an imperfect version of someone who stays in on Friday evenings.

I’m sitting in the living room of my favorite, my most favorite apartment I’ve ever had, even more so that the floor to ceiling window apartment that I cried on a stormy Thursday evening in late September, knowing that this apartment was too good for me, but I bought it because the person I loved wanted it, would be lost eventually, but this blog wouldn’t be. So I’d appreciate it if you guys could let me write. And if my friends could stop giving terrible advice I’m not asking for. And if I love you, you can have it. You need your asthma medication in the pandemic I have to find, no problem. Do you like Demonia boots? Roses every week? Mozerella cheese and your house cleaned? Notes on your dresser? Songs you’ll send to your new person? Memories you’ll shame everyone else after me for like I’m the ashes on a mantle piece? And though I appreciate the grandiose eccentricities that no rockstar has ever had the privilege of enjoying…it’s kind of gross you don’t.

I JUST WANT TO EXIST

If you go to a house party/after party with a bunch of pieces of shit (some of which are good friends of yours), with someone you’re dating, I promise you, nobody is going to be rude or make a pass at your person. I only date minty broads (respectfully). And I understand that some dudes don’t know how to change a car battery or do their own laundry or God forbid wash their own taint WITH SOAP.

In the ‘60s, women looked so great, and that’s why everyone was like have a cigarette and when I go to a party with someone I’m dating, I want them to enjoy themselves. All I’m saying is if the good lord didn’t want me to chat with women, he shouldn’t have made them look like that. I want my person to absolutely remind herself why she’s beautiful and get free things off this idiot. However, if it gets too far and I approach this powdered ball taint gentleman and respectfully say, “hey man, this is my girlfriend, and I’d appreciate it if you were a bit more respectful”…and he was not so respectful…unfortunately none of my “friends” have ever been respectful of that. Because I’m angry and too much.

Moving on.

I don’t want advice about what I write. What I do. Who I date. Anything.

For once, I’m good being Kerry. And I don’t need anything or anyone.