I’m Not Mean, I’m Real

Every time a relationship ends I obsess over it. Over analyze every date, every conversation, every everything. The last guy I dated was great. We had a lot in common and a ton of chemistry. Where did it go wrong? I’ve been doing the thing women do when a relationship fails and I’ve been trying to place blame, but I can’t seem to find fault in either one of us. It wasn’t us. It was … Gary Johnson. Gary Fucking Johnson ended my relationship. 

So the guy was a musician. I know, I know, but you can’t get away from them in this town and it’s so cute how sensitive and in touch with their emotions they are. He had these big, beautiful heart melting eyes and this long, sexy wild hair that always looked like he’d just been fucked … and being a musician that was probably accurate most of the time. So I’d only been dating the musician a couple of months when we finally tiptoed into the dangerous waters of political rhetoric. It was especially dangerous because up to this point I had been on my best behavior and was still being polite … but it’s an election year and I have the right to know if I’m dating a moron or not. So here we go.

It was after Donald Trump had made his “Russia if you’re listening …” remark about hacking Hillary Clinton’s emails but pre-grab-em-by-the-pussy and I was trying to wrap my head around how this man had gotten this far. “This man is dangerous,” I say. “He can’t be our next president. We’re in big fucking trouble if this idiot becomes our next president. He’s gonna piss off the wrong people and we’re gonna get nuked, man. We’re done. We’re toast.” It’s almost 2 AM at this point and we’d just come from last call at the bar to continue our whisky bender at his place.

“I don’t like Hillary Clinton either though,” he says. He explained why, I think, but I can’t remember because it was late and I was drunk and I was just watching his lips move wondering how I was going to get his face in my crotch before I passed out. He was so, so fucking hot. I acted like I was listening, but I wasn’t so I had no counter when his beautiful lips stopped moving. So I asked a question.

“Well then who are you going to vote for if you don’t like either of them?” but what I meant to say was You can put your hand up my skirt now.

“Gary Johnson,” this mother fucker says and my girl boner deflated so fast that the rush of blood back to my brain almost made my head explode. Gary Fucking Johnson? Cool, I’ll save you the time, just wipe your ass with the ballot now and throw it in the toilet. But I was still trying to get laid at that point so I didn’t say that.

“He doesn’t have a fucking chance,” I retort. “He’s not even in the same race.” With that we enter into a debate about the third party. “Look, I get that a lot of people don’t like Clinton or Trump but Gary Johnson is not the answer. Not now. He can’t even get on the debate stage with them, he’s not polling high enough! There’s no way he’ll be our next president. Our choices are Clinton or Trump. Let’s be real about that. Trump is dangerous and Clinton is our only weapon against him. Gary Johnson is a fucking waste of a vote. No, it’s worse, it’s a fucking vote for Trump. That’s fucking ridiculous. If you realize Trump is a fucking terrible, terrible idea for POTUS you can’t vote for Johnson. You have to vote Hillary.”

“You’re being mean,” he says. I wasn’t being fucking mean. Sure it was late and there was alcohol and I’d begun swearing like a truck driver. The heat and the tension in the room was rising. My voice got a little louder. My brow furrowed. My eyes intensified. I was passionate. I was real. I wasn’t being fucking mean. “You’re talking to me like I’m an idiot,” he whines.

“I don’t mean to sound condescending. This is just super important to me. And a lot of people don’t get it. This is not the time to experiment with that third party shit. It’s not gonna happen. Johnson can’t even get in the ring with them. He’s not even in the same fight.” How didn’t he get this? If Mayweather is fighting Pacquiao, you don’t bet on Vargas. I would have explained it to him like that but he was a fucking musician and his vagina was deeper than mine. We went in circles for a while about this and I just kept telling him he didn’t understand and he maintained that I was being mean.

We eventually got past it, but a couple of weeks later over more drinks at the bar we’d enter into another debate and he’d call me mean again. Look, you’re real fucking cute with your Gary Johnson sticker and your I’m gonna make my voice heard bullshit but I’m gonna tell you that NO ONE FUCKING CARES. I’m not being mean, man. That’s real.

You don’t tell people they’re mean. That’s mean. If I’m so mean, how do I have so many nice friends? I’m not mean. You’re just fucking dumb. You’re just pissed I schooled you on politics. Whatever, fix your dumb hair you look like a fucking idiot. I’m fucking mean? That’s bullshit. Fucking sensitive ass musician. I’M NOT FUCKING MEAN, I’M REAL. Yeah. Fuck you. Write a song about it.

Anyway, that’s how Gary Johnson ended my relationship.


One thought on “I’m Not Mean, I’m Real

  1. Pingback: So Long, Johnson | Shell Short

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