Barista and I have a weekly ritual. It involves 2-3 bottles of wine, a bunch of cigs and sitting outside having real talk. Sometimes we talk about all of you, The Cooch, or unicorns but our favorite topic is us. Naturally. So last night we’re two bottles deep and god knows how many curse words and bitch sessions in when I glance over at poor Billy Mays. For you no account fools that remember from yesterday, Billy has a sick. He leapt from my grasp during an all-day drinking session on Saturday and cracked his screen. Side note: I can’t help but think of that god awful “memoir” A Million Little Pieces every time I look at him. I hated that fucking book. But I digress. Let’s get back to Billy. As I looked at him sitting there broken and disheveled on B’s patio table I exclaimed, “Oh my god, I am Billy Mays!” “Sham Wow?” she asked. “No! Slap Chop! Listen! I’m making a metaphor up in this bitch!” I then explained that, like my Beloved, I am also cracked and broken and now encased in a hard impenetrable shell. “Get it?” I asked. B quickly countered that I’m actually more like this guy, to which I must admit, she makes a valid point. Johnny 5 alive! Jesus. No wonder I’m still single. If I were a guy I wouldn’t date me if my life depended on it. Later bitches. I’ll be at da club being all emotionally unavailable and shit.