No One Would Believe This Crap
My life is a crossbreed of a disaster documentary and a thriller. I moved a lot and often until I finally settled in my sixth country. Things eventually calmed down… sort of. Come on, I can’t have a peaceful life. I have to, at least, get a fixer-upper from hell with neighbors that keep things interesting. If I go a whole month without my foot going through the floor or an old, intoxicated lady asking me if I want a dead cat in a box (there was no dead cat. She hallucinated it), then it won’t be my life.
I could probably write a memoir, but who would believe this crap?
So, here I am, writing things that are a lot more realistic. It’s easier to suspend disbelief and imagine the world with mind-reading demons than me on a date with a guy who kept bragging about how silky his hair is, how he likes getting his butt fingered, how he likes to choke women during intercourse, and that he loves giving women expensive gifts but doesn’t have anyone to give those gifts to because his girlfriend is in jail. That’s okay, though, because it all made sense when his dad showed up (he was tracking his son’s car). Upon seeing me, his dad started profusely apologizing and said… and I quote, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were with a girl. I thought you were doing drugs.”