Scrunch the words together, pronounce it fast and repeat it twice: Fudge Gin Benches, Fudge Gin Benches. Do you know of any? I guess the first step is for me to describe what they are and how a few Fudge-Gin-Benches have affected me.
Fudge-Gin-Benches had me spinning on their merry-go-round missions, tricking me into thinking I’m a wooden bench that’s been scuffed up, walked on, spit on, lied upon, buffed down, smoothed out to shine . . . but only for the moment that’s convenient for show.
Now I’ve always shared a bountiful batch of unconditional love for those who share the same prehistoric life of trials and tribulations—from pigtails, miniskirts, and asymmetric fashioned hair.
I’ve never judged those Fudge-Gin-Benches for all or any dysfunctional transgressions that are overlooked, hidden, and neatly tucked with a dangling string that always leads to the truth. It’s no secret I’m different from you, you, you, you, and you. I’m not a crouch-less cougar, a laughing hyena, a psychotic nymphomaniac, a misinformed professional, a pathological liar, or even a self-absorbed inconsiderate hater. I’m the answer to those who seek understanding, openness, and thoughtfulness.
I’ve been excluded from the rocky whirlwind effects of your heartless actions, but you act as if your misery has besieged your world without notice. I stopped calling and unleashing my thoughtfulness . . . but I bet you, you, you, you, and neither you took a moment to notice. I’m tired of being second best, lied to, denied of, hated on, snickered about when you’re liquored up on Grey Goose or wine, yet, your truths uncover hidden vulnerabilities. I’ve had it; no more predictable themes will be accepted from you, the art of overlooking and dismissing me for special occasions, birthdays, holidays, first dates, play-dates, anniversaries, life-altering situations, marriages, divorces, bridal showers, baby showers—the list could continue for days.
You see, the cluster of Fudge-Gin-Benches will grow and fester in the construction of their internal design. I thought our history and unspoken loyalty would’ve prevented choices of adding your best friend’s name to the third, fourth, or fifth draft of maiden choices. I swear you’ll have to do a double take when déjà vu erupts the melodic flow of friendship and you’ve been kicked out of weddings, erased off contact lists, which lead to missed birthdays and the lack of calls to express condolences of personal deaths and misfortune.
I’m renewed, refreshed, and exuberant with the urge to dust the fallacies off my shoulder and remove myself from negative thoughts and intentional misunderstandings. We’re cool, but I release you, you, you, you, and you from the sudden urges of unnecessary spews. I was ignored through your silent treatments created by the clustered trilogy, yet the epic will probably continue without anyone noticing. But just as the plot thickens, an unspoken acknowledgment stands before us, which is probably why the un-executed visits have multiplied into three-word texts, one sentence e-mails, and avoidance.
The tiredness exceeds my willingness to continue the boring trip on the merry-go-round clues and insults of whether I’m really a part of the faux donkey butt sisterhood. I’ve decided to break free from spinning and falling off of the seats of my favorite Fudge-Gin-Benches.