Bachelorette no. 1 FTW

RonaThatBitch.

Double-space is the equivalence of 6ft in text and that sleazy, slobbering sycophant greedy to take every inch, can stay the f- over there. “Rona” is like that fair-weather friend we’ve all had, who lives to steal all your thunder, boyfriends and your make up leaving a deus ex machina cold sore lipgloss shmear on your toothbrush. 

If my biggest worry is that my hands have aged 10 years in 5 weeks of washing them like Cher in Silkwood, then I am winning this bitch. The reality that there is no definitive finish line or that I may remain Bachelorette no.1 indefinitely has got me OCD moisturizing, aside from wondering will it be possible to trust anyone with my mascara again… goes without saying. Unemployed actresses posting spastic interweb litanies boarding on web-cam grrlz of TikTok is a blizzard. Clubhouse Beta is a thing?  Displaced actors, marooned like a land of lost toys is harrowing and exhausting prospect: which broken pretty doll am I then? Obsoleteá? Dirty 30 years sweat equity reduced to pushing a snowball up a volcano with no EDD weeks avail until July? This sneeze that was heard around the world - the musical, cuckold by the agenda brigade out in-force, letting you know what’s in for them with enough back-peddlers to launch their own circus. Yet who can afford a ticket when we all have two pennies to rub together, sponsored by that whore of on-land suffocation: RonaThatBitch.This emotional meringue we’re all wading through is a sticky bitch. 

Bon courage et du courageux, may we meet on the other side of this gauntlet… “a flask of wine, a book a verse and you beside me singing in the wilderness. And wilderness is paradise enow!”  - Omar Khayyam