In an open letter to the stranger who joked about buying me a roofie colada,
“So about jokes that imply rape…not my favorite.”
“So about jokes that imply rape…not my favorite.”
“I’m not surprised that you’re going to see A Bad Moms Christmas. Not surprised at all.”
“I could not look away. I am ashamed of this fact.”
“Isn’t Sunday the day of rest?”
“Wait, is the fountain of youth in my pants? Otherwise, I have no viable reason for that sort of penetrating look.”
“Gentlemen, each of you deserve your own open letter. I have so many questions. Like, what were you looking for?”
“What exactly were you trying to convey with your ‘Hey now’? What about your ‘Damn’?”
“Two things. 1. I hope you enjoy being a lieutenant on the blackness policing force. 2. Do you realize that you have a tendency to use third person when talking about us blacks?”
“I don’t remember when I wrote, ‘I bet that no-flush heffa’ didn’t wash her hands,’ but I can only imagine how upset I was when I wrote it. I bet you saved me from an uncomfortable moment.”
“I am struggling not to ‘call you out your name.’ I am barely holding on.”