the silly bitch prequel

starring: one very silly bitch w/ trauma jr.
rated g.
ronald regan or some shit.

🖤🖤🖤

honestly,
you’re irrelevant;
but the story kinda slaps
as comedic relief.

…

ah yes.
the one who came before.
the big-eyed prototype.
the emotional support party girl
who co-piloted a ptsd combat vet
like that was something you were qualified for
because—
wait—
your parents… got… divorced.

honey.

you are like thirty.
a whole-ass adult.
with a job.
and still crying like a background extra in a cw show?

bitch, this is not dawson’s creek.

this wasn’t trauma.
this was tuesday.
this was "mom cheated on dad"
babe— you’re 30
have you not experienced a real problem?
yet, suddenly
you’re doing coke in a shared van
like you’ve seen some shit.

like you’ve seen battle.
ma’am—
you survived passive-aggressive holiday dinners
and still thought that made you his twin flame.

bitch—

you didn’t survive war.
you survived a group chat argument and a stepmom.
(did someone even throw shit, any blood…at all?)

and now you think you and the vet are trauma twins?
nah, babe.
you’re just a silly bitch.

you shared a car.
with a grown man.
on purpose.
while doing drugs.
but yeah, you’re the blueprint.
you’re the “deep one.”
get a fucking grip.

yo—
his mom called you an animal at one point.
said you could barely stand
via alcoholism.
because the “shit you’ve seen”
was just that real.

are we serious?
bitch—am i getting punk’d?

yo—
he probably loved you.
because truthfully he was dramatic as hell too.
complete diva.
y’all probably slayed.
til he went home with another random bitch at the NYE party.
silly bitches.
silly prizes.

🖤

honestly? me and the starter wife
(that girl had jesus, and patience, and apparently threw a filing cabinet, i fucking salute you)
could run a relevancy panel over espresso,
compare blast radius data,
and still never bother to pronounce your name—
(like the president—or?)

because, in the immortal words of ye: “you bitches got dru-u-u-gs.”
translation: congrats on the coke-bond. trauma lite shit.

we should’ve gift-wrapped him for you—coke residue and all.
but shit—
you couldn’t even clear the ex-wife qualifying round.
despite the bathroom lines and party-girl stamina.

tragic.
because—
honestly,
you two deserve each other.

(babe, i know u saw this—texas: ping ping. shit’s funny right? u laughed. silly bitches)