I have a date. A blind date, at that. In fact, by the time you read this, I will either be furiously fluttering my non-existent eyelashes or climbing out the toilet window. However, as the all-seeing, mythical being you are, I’m sure you’re already aware of the night’s arrangements.
All I’ve been given is a time and place – I don’t even know his name, let alone what he looks like. This could be a master stroke, or the end of a 20-year friendship. So please add a dash of unicorn dust and let him be lovely and normal so I don’t have to ‘Bye Felicia’ one of my nearest and dearest, and can at least enjoy my juicy steak and a tall glass of prosecco without having to use the safe word.
Now I can only do so much – you can’t polish a turd, but you can sure as hell sprinkle it with glitter and stick a cherry on top (which I fully intend to do). But we both know that smoke and mirrors and Spanx will only get you so far: the real magic is down to you.
So listen up and listen up good, you little sh*t: you better show up and shoot that damn thing straight for once, because your aim’s been more crooked than a dog’s hind leg.
Over the years, I’ve watched you flitting hither and thither with your fat, smug, oh-so-punchable head, merrily flinging arrows left right and centre for all and sundry except me – and guess what? I’m getting a little long in the tooth for your false dawns and silly games, “Doctor Love”.
And you know something else? I’m also getting real tired – of being nice. Of being optimistic. Of being patient. Of being prayerful. Of being happy for everybody else. Especially when being all these things has gotten me absolutely NOWHERE with you. So this year, I’m going to try being something different: being a b*tch.
Hear this, you chubby winged rat: if you don’t fix up and hit the bullseye in 2019, I will hunt you down, snap that bow like a twig and wear your tiny cherubic testicles as dangly earrings. How’s that for a New Year’s resolution?
Yours ever hopefully,
The Tellergram x
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