Mean

Lungs of a snake pit.
“I read what you wrote on your webpage. You said you were a talented whore. You think you’re talented?” I’m silently trembling as you ask me this. I’m thinking:I technically didn’t say that. I said I was in the “talented tartlet” awards. But I say nothing. I’m not that dumb, I know better than to correct you. “Answer me. Do you think you’re talented?” Who ARE you? Maybe no one is meant to know except you. If your breath were a mammal, it’d be a predatory one. A drifting serpent that makes little noise and leaves the ground beneath undisturbed, traveling as if floating, approaching it’s meal. Your breath and the sound of your voice is a soothing hypnotic experience. It’s eerie in that it is comforting while void of warmth. Your temper strikes in the blink of an eye and you are chillingly serene. The way you deliver your words is like the way a snake squeezes a strong and certain death to the one it bit. Twitching in the tightening coils. Scales and all that shit. I can’t make sense of this, can you? If you are in here reading my webpage, you know this is about you. You know who you are. You’ll kick my ass on a call, to punish me. I think you’re flattered and if I suggest that your softened by the flattery, you’ll cringe and vow to rip me a new one. And how to reply? One option is that I’d say “yes,I am talented.” But then I’ll be in for it. You’d go crazy with belittling me. Hissing profanities till smoke comes out of your nose.Or until I’ve learned my lesson that it is critical to extinguish my inner fire and purge every last conceptual morsel self-esteem.
Alternatively, I can reply: “No. I am not.” That is what I’m supposed to say. And then you’d go to town and chew me out. You’re always mean. It’s too explicit to describe. “Abusive” is kind of an understatement. You know it. I’m crying convulsively and I hear the “click” of the call being ended on your side. You didn’t say goodbye. Simple, Clean, abrupt, and rude as always. you like me, don’t you? Why else would you read this?