“You’re Ornery!”

“You’re ornery!” she said.

Really? This is ornery? I thought, silently. Because all I did was call her out on some clear bullshit, in what I consider my usual unusual fashion, which had never garnered that word before.  Anyway, I don’t consider it an insult.  Especially now.

*Bad tempered, combatant*  she meant. Stubborn, common usage.  Actual meaning: You don’t fall for the usual bullshit I’ve been programmed to dish out.

”I don’t understand, ornery?” (me: 19th century: variant of ‘ordinary,’ damn my studies.)

“You’re no Basic Bitch!”  Oh, maybe it’s closer to my studies than I thought.

“Basic Bitch?” Google: airhead, trixie, fool does whatever her man say.

OK. Great . . . thanks?

Now, this not-so-basic-bitch is supposed to feel bad because you’ve committed suicide? Guilty even?  We all could’ve saved you. We tried!  Not hard enough though, right?

Really?

And an Instagram post is how we are informed of our required response?

So now we are programmed to be grieving.  It’s tragic.  So beautiful, so young.  Don’t speak ill, oh no, not now, not . . . Ever?  So . . . Innocent?

Rest in peace, my almost friend, no fool for you, may you never try again.

#playednomore

0B0EC378-B15C-4995-A114-9226ECC4C945
Kyla: 254.258.0560 “We’re sorry, the member you have called has calling restrictions. . . Welcome to Verizon.

Psychic Vampirism, please, look it up.

The longer you forgive and forget, the longer you’ll get played.

 

 

 

 

 

Author: KenshoHomestead

Creatively working toward self-sufficiency on the land.

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