Fuck me, I am a total dumbass for thinking I could get a relationship to work with another tweaker. Like considering the gong pageantry relationships already are for me when I'm sober with my wits about me—what the hell was I thinking with this shit?

Relationships? Hey, those things are ez pz. Surely I could do interpersonal relations while gacked off my tits the whole time! I can't remember to disconnect my phone from the bathroom speaker's Bluetooth before I go to start a 4-hour DJ set down in Club Clitoris playing the infectious beats of dudes literally beating their dicks onto a set of tits while my roommate is trying to take a bath, but I can navigate the ups and downs of meeting another person's needs. That's me, miss relationship professional.

Tell Cousin Jeremy he can shut his fucking mouth because I'm gonna be bringing somebody home for Christmas this year and it's not going to be my guy friend, Brad this time. You know, the guy who could act about as convincingly straight as the candy cane on his fucking cashmere, deep v-neck sweater. Like fuck me, Brad. You couldn't even try to pretend you're into deep V's of the vaginal variety for an evening? Oh, you didn't need to bring any fruitcake, Aunt Joan. I brought this fruitcake, my boyfriend Brad instead. Now can your son shut his pretty mouth up about my old highschool softball team before Brad fucks it? Thank yooooouuuuuuu.

Really though. Relationships meth = Brad for Christmas. Like meth on its own already storms into my life and drops it's monster dick on my brain's coffee table. Not only does being high make everything take waaaaaayyyy longer, but my emotions are way more intense. Like more intense than the awkward collective boners from a troop of boy scouts on a camping trip all bundled into their sleeping bags trying to pretend they don't all just want to jerk off. Which if they're pitching tents in tents, well that's pretty intense.

Needless to say, we argued constantly. We stayed up all night just arguing some nights thanks to our good friend Chris Dolmeth. We'd have killer make up sex but sadly, a few days per week filled with more O's than the chorus to Tarzan Boy doesn't make up for glaring incompatibility issues like being a huge fucking asshole, Eric. But whatever, dude. You always smoked way more than half of the shit anyways. At least Brad owns jeans, you fuck.