Hating the Boss

by Kristen Granata

My mom says that’s how you know something’s wrong: You start downplaying your unhappiness and comparing it to domestic abuse.

I’d reached my breaking point. Now I know why people call it that. You bend so much that you eventually break in half. Two parts: Who you once were, and the angry, resentful person you’ve become.

I envy the people who stop eating when they’re stressed. I’m an emotional eater. I eat my feelings, and unfortunately, they aren’t fat free. They taste a lot like Ben and Jerry’s.

You don’t realize how important a person’s laugh is until you’re on a date with someone whose laugh sounds like a dying mongoose.

Resentment will do that to you. It trickles into your blood like a poison, slow at first, until it’s coursing through your veins. It overrides every other feeling you have, making it impossible to see through the blurriness of anger and disappointment.

Men don’t want to fuck a stick. They want something to grip on to. Something to squeeze. Something that bounces and jiggles. You might be embarrassed of your muffin top, but the truth is: A man doesn’t notice what’s between your tits and your pussy when you’re naked and his dick is about to be inside you.

“You did what we all do in a marriage. We want to please our husbands. We want to give them everything because we love them and we want them to be happy with us. But our husbands are supposed to give back. It’s supposed to be an equal exchange of give and take.”

I might not know why I’m here, but I know one thing for certain: I’ll stay here and hold her for as long as she needs me to.

Girls physically cannot keep

a secret from their besties. It’s a gene that’s missing from our DNA.