Listen, darling. I'm forty. I don’t do small talk. I don’t want your awkward eye contact, your fake smiles, or your ‘what do you do for work?’ bullshit.
I’m not here to impress. I’m not here to entertain. I’m not your emotional scratching post.
I don’t want to be out at midnight squeezing into bar stools, pretending to laugh at some mediocre man’s story about crypto.
I want to be horizontal. In silk. With coffee and cake. Watching Guy Fieri drive into a diner while my soul does somersaults in peace.
You can go chase vibes. I chase flavor.
You can post pics at the club. I post up in bed.
Your idea of fun is noise.
Mine is frosting and Food Network reruns.
I’m not tired. I’m elevated.
I’m not antisocial. I’m discerning.
And no, I don’t want to “just come for one drink.”
I’ve already got something sweet—and he wears sunglasses on the back of his head.
So unless you're delivering pastries or Guy Fieri himself,
fuck off with a smile, and don’t scratch on my door again.
Meow."
