Forgiveness is a Noun not a Verb

Look, I’m like the least forgiving person on Earth. I don’t do “forgiveness”. But it seems to be really popular these days, I keep coming across this bizarre concept all over the internet when I’m looking for advice on revenge. But there’s something a lot of these “forgiving” people are getting wrong…

My advice to the forgive and forgetters is: if you truly you wanna be all forgiving… that’s fine – but you gotta take note: forgiveness is a noun not a verb. What I mean is that forgiveness is a concrete, solid thing – like a big boulder or something. It’s a commitment you make to yourself – yourself, yourself – not other people – to improve the condition of your soul. You can’t just say you forgive someone and magically you acquire inner peace or something, it don’t work that way.

There was this chick the other day, prattling on about her ex for an hour and a half, and then she ended by saying, “But, of course, I forgive him”. Well… if she’d forgiven him she wouldn’t have just wasted 1.5 hours of her precious existence talking about how much she hates him. Think of all the things she could’ve done with that hour and a half…!

In 1.5 hours you can:

  • Learn to say “I love you” in 10 languages
  • Learn how to juggle
  • How to play “Let It Be” by The Beatles on a keyboard
  • How to make a Spanish omelette and actually make one and eat the damn thing – twice!

What a wasted opportunity!

I know that applies to me too, I’ve wasted at least – at least! – 7 years on revenge, and that other fun “R” word: Regret. I could’ve become a Guitar Hero in that length of time! But, hey, I accept my fate, because verb-ing it doesn’t make it so and I can’t turn it into a noun unless I have some Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind treatment done on my brain.

If you can forgive and forget the people who’ve wrong you then good on you, think of all the Spanish omelettes you can make with your ample free time! Just make sure your behavior is matching the words coming out of your mouth otherwise you’ll have to come join me on the Raft of Revenge, and no “Let It Be” for you!

 

My Student is Still Hot

What? I ain’t blind!

So I saw my student again today – the hot one. Recap: He’s hot, I think he’s hot, wow he’s so hot.

He’s a mature student – don’t shoot me! And … And … and – wait I have more excuses… and, oh yes! And, he’s only going to be my student for a further two or three hours then weirdly I become his student. Cause he’s a trainee teacher and so am I… and I need tutoring……..

He can tutor me any time!

I actually just totally make excuses to be around this guy cause he makes me happy. Guys have never been anything but abusive to me so it’s kinda nice to be around a guy who is friendly and warm and makes me laugh – this is new to me.

But I’m not even dating my student or anything, he’s way too good looking…

My view is, if a guy is that good looking he’s either:
a) messed up in the head
b) married with kids
c)  a player
d) a vampire

I’m thinking c right now…or d….
I know you guys are gonna be like “What about gay…?” He ain’t gay, no way, no how. He is giving off way too many hetero vibes to be gay.

But see, I wouldn’t date him because:
a) he’s my student and my future teacher
b) he’s probably a player
c) I have plans! I ain’t p*ssing my dreams away for some guy. Been there, done that, learned the lesson: Ain’t no man worth p*ssing your dreams away for.

He sure is cute though – hot damn!

 

Hot Student Asked For My #

So remember I told you guys about that totally hot student I have? Here’s a brief recap: he’s hot but he’s my student BUT he is a grown ass man, and he’s hot, but he’s my student so I have to be professional.

So he came to see me the other day to tell me he wouldn’t be able to attend class (last class before half term break) and then he’s asking for my number so he could “get some academic support over the half term break”.

Now, look, this guy is hot as the Sahara desert in June and I’m a bug-eyed lil bish so I’m like…… he can’t seriously be attracted to me!… BUT his excuse is bs! And believe me, I’m usually the one to believe these bs excuses like, “Of course he only wants my number for academic support because I’m a bug-eyed lil bish” that would be my usual thought-process but it’s a bs excuse. Our next session is in 9 days and he has no assignments due over the break and us chicks kinda know when a guy wants something-something. Either he’s blind or I am.

And, damn, he has this white coat, and damn he looks so fly in that coat. And he funkin knows it too. Damn…

But that’s beside the point… obviously I said, “No, you can’t have my number… university policy… blah-de-blah” You know, even if he’d been a regular guy on the street rather than my student I still would’ve said no, cause he’s too damn hot. If a hot guy is asking for my number, something is wrong with him! It’s not like I’m funny or outgoing or have big tits or something to make up for looking like Gollum. So something is up! He’s probably a sado-masocist or a vampire or something.

My Student Is So Hot!

Hold up! Hold up! Hold up! Wait a minute now before you start cussing me out, ok?

Now, first of all – he ain’t no child, ok? He’s probably older than me! He’s a grown a$$ man. A very grown-a$$ man. A very sexy, very grown-a$$ man and I’d sure as heck like to put my hands on his grown a$$.

Second, I take my role as a teacher very seriously…

Third, he is so hot! Like John Legend in a bath of whipped cream during a heatwave level hot! Amen!

Fourth, this guy wouldn’t give me the time of day. In fact, if I wasn’t his tutor, he wouldn’t have anything to do with my mongrel-looking self. So, it’s not like I’m trying to get with him or hoping to get with him or as if I think I have any chance of getting with him. And he’s my student, so…

I just think he’s hot. Being his tutor doesn’t make me suddenly blind to what a fine-a$$ mother he is!

I’d actually only tutored him once until today and was almost thinking maybe I imagined he was really hot, like maybe he wasn’t actually that hot and I’d just misremembered. I was having this argument with myself on the way to my second lesson with him. I’m a Gemini (the twin sign) and we Geminians all have multiple-personality disorder.

While walking down the corridor, one of me was like “He was so hot!” and the other me was like, “Nah, he wasn’t that hot, you’re misremembering” and the other me was like, “No, he was hot, I’m sure of it!” and the other me was like, “Well, we’ll see in a few minutes.”

Then I turned the corner and there he was at a computer. And, damn, he wasn’t just hot, he was even hotter than I remembered. Me, myself and I totally hi-5’ed each other. Man, he’s smokin’! Baby, baby, baby, come to momma!

Look, anyone who knows me – which is probably nobody because I have no friends – but if someone did know me they’d know that I have the sex drive of a cactus. A dead cactus. A dead cactus in an old, dead, dry desert. Ok? In case you were thinking I get the hots for every guy I see or something. I am dead from the waist down. In fact, I’m surprised there ain’t cobwebs and spiders down there, and bats coming out. My point is, it takes one hell of a guy to make me soft and wet, honey.

Part of the problem is I’m not attracted to 99.9% of dudes. Because I like a very specific type of guy. And on the rare occasions that I’m lucky enough to meet my type of guy, something goes wrong – the last one was married with kids, the one before was an arrogant c*nt, the one before that turned out to be a crazy stalker and his kisses tasted like sh** (:shudder:). The guy I was crushing on before that was the artist, Prince, so, y’know, kinda out of my league, and Little Richard never visits me so f*** him!

Quite often the guys I like are already taken or they have kids or other baggage or they’re players or they’re a$$holes, or we want different things – oh and the big thing is that usually they’re not interested in me – at all – because they’re hot, sexy, good-looking, smooth, hot, sexy, genius black guys and I’m this creepy, emaciated, spotty, frizzy-haired, bug-eyed, E.T-fingered, white, urchin creature, so…. It’s hard enough to get a dude if you’re good-looking and not picky about who you date. If you’re ugly and picky, well, you don’t stand much chance.

It’s not that I don’t date, but I end up having to date guys I’m not actually interested in and I don’t know how other women manage to fake enthusiasm for a guy they don’t give a sh** about. I used to date this fat white f**ker and he was so fat and white and would chew with his mouth open and he had dandruff in his hair and he smelled of sweat and he kept getting fatter and fatter and he ignored me all the time and kept looking at other women but would claim he “lurved” me. Pff! I was miserable. I thought, f**k this sh**! This fat f**ker makes being single look like winning the lottery!

Anyway, my hot student is probably married with 20 kids. And he’s my student. And he wouldn’t look at me even if he was available. But whatevs, a girl can dream, right?! Mhm, John Legend in a bath of whipped cream during a heatwave!

Good night!

 

Open Letter to a Married Female Friend

Dear Stacey,

I hate you. Oh, by the way, I also hate your husband, Todd. I hate you both. Do you know why I hate you both, Stacey? Because you’re so f***ing perfect. Even your damn names are perfect! Todd & Stacey. Stacey & Todd. Wtf?! You and your perfect husband with your perfect jobs and your perfect lives and your perfect car in your perfect garage in your perfect house with it’s perfect “matching colors” kitchen with your perfect “His & Hers” coffee mugs to fill with freshly ground organic coffee from your perfect coffee machine and then sit on your perfect deck in your perfect garden and say “Hi” to your perfect neighbors in your perfect neighborhood. How is this even real?!

Stacey, people like you are supposed to only exist in fictional stories. In fact, it’s like you just stepped right out of a Fairytale and came to life. How do things like this happen, Stacey? What cosmic occurrence lead to the string of events that lead to people like you and Todd existing? Why did every single thing in your life go so wonderfully, perfectly right, Stacey?

Why?!

Do you know what “worry” is, Stacey? No, you don’t. Do you know what “bills” are? Of course you don’t! Your perfect, rich, successful husband deals with all the bills so you never have to worry your pretty little head about it. You’re only stressed because you have so many champagne luncheons to go to and parties to throw and invites to send and how will you ever have the time to fit in your horse-riding and Pilates classes?  That’s like your idea of Defcon 5, isn’t it, Stacey? You can’t even fathom real problems!

I can only dream of your life, Stacey. Well, actually, no, that’s not quite true because I’m your friend so I have to watch you live your wonderfully, smooth and glossy, picture-perfect life while I sit on the other side of the fence with my broken life and broken teeth and broken heart, hoping I’ll be able to find some broken man and afford a broken shack in Crimesville sometime before I die of malnourishment or murder.

I hate you, Stacey. Because you have choices. You’ve always had choices, from the moment you were born. Who do I want to be friends with? What toys do I want for Christmas? What clothes shall I wear? Do I want a brown pony or a white pony? Where do I want to study? Which car do I want daddy to buy me for my 17th birthday? Who do I want to date? Where do I want to live? Who do I want to marry? You got to CHOOSE all these things, Stacey! You didn’t have to work for anything, you didn’t have to fight for anything, you didn’t have to settle for second best – or third, or fourth – you didn’t have to accept acceptable or deal with endless disappointment and rejection.

Ever.

You don’t even know what disappointment and rejection are. You’d have to look them up in the dictionary. You don’t know what it’s like to go without something, to long for something you can never, ever have. Every single thing just worked out so hot damn wonderfully for you, didn’t it, Stacey? Why?! What makes you so deserving of a wonderful life? And worst of all, because you were born into it, you don’t even comprehend how fantastic it is! You sit there and complain that your cinnamon spiced chai latte isn’t “chai” enough. Wtf, Stacey?!

F*** you, Stacey!

P.S. See you next weekend.

Love,

Your friend, Aliquo.