How to Be an Excellent Hot Mess in Three Easy Steps!
Ellie Guzman

HA! That’s the most refreshing thing I’ve read in a bit. So it almost chokes up my hollow chest cavity to drop a handful of ground up truth like sofa cushion Doritos all over your gooey mess. But if its any consolation, its awfully cute and endearing you think you’re learning and becoming varied and growing towards anything other than increasingly expensive addictions to ever more dubious and sketchy substances. Trust me (because, you know, thats a thing people do with total strangers typing weird, overly familiar shit to them at 5AM), it really doesn’t get better. That’s just some mean shit we made up high as fuck on bath salts one night to tell ya’ll. Yeah. We suck. We know.

What is probably gonna happen is there will be a couple of fake outs where you think “see, things are coming together” or “I really, I’ll just say like, him alot and I'm sure he feels the same way.” That's just the universe high on bath salts fucking with you. Like the very next day you’ll find the reason he “likes” you is as cover for his long-term romantic affair with his sister; this as you are getting fired and losing your health insurance just in time to get diagnosed with Lupus next week.

How am I qualified to speak to this? I’m 48, It’s 5Am, I’ve been up all night and am now waiting for the roach shift in the kitchen to be done so I can go in and dish a coffee cup out of the filthy sink with a wooden spoon to wash in the bathroom sink before microwaving what’s left of yesterday’s coffee, which I will wincingly sip as I ponder whether I know anyone who might want to pay for a blowjob from a middle-age man sense I haven’t paid my cell phone bill.

But it’s ok, I tell myself. I’m writer. One of my Medium pieces even got, maybe, seven reads. Frankly, at this point, I’m terrified of what happens if I get any more interesting, if any of it gets any more interesting.

But I try to stay positive. Maybe it will be a good day and I will manage to sell two almost toothless blow jobs so I can go party. Because fuck it. Or my version of what you say in this piece, which has been like a daily mantra for me for decades, “fuck the dumb shit.”

Fuck. Where are my teeth anyway?

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