This more than likely makes me a bitch, but whatever…
My therapist is trying to get me to stop saying I’m white trash, but today I learned my father proposed to his second wife in an IHOP in 1985, and she ACCEPTED. So when I talk to my therapist tomorrow, I’m looking forward to seeing her trying to therapize THAT, and tell me white trash is not in my DNA somewhere.
Wait, do those 23 and Me kits test for white trash? That’d be amazing — get some SCIENCE on this shit.
My therapist has been trying to get me to stop calling myself white trash, but I AM currently using one of my slippers as a coaster, so, um… 🤷🏻♀️
On the bright side, I’m no longer self-conscious about being white trash. I am classy as fuck, y’all.
I have reached peak white trash. No, literally — I overslept, so my “shower” consisted of five baby wipes, dry shampoo, and a metric shit-ton of powder.
(Oh, please. Like I have a threshold for “oversharing.”)
Family Time, Day 2.
Wine rations are low. I am texting friends:
Me: “I’m in a car listening my mom and grandfather talk, and ‘Disco Duck’ is on the radio for some reason. So… I’m just gonna jump out of the car and hope for the best.”
Friend 1: “BWHAHAHA.”
Friend 2: “Holy shit, that is amazing. Godspeed.”
Me: “The conversation literally just went from houses in the city Grandpa worked on back in the day, to this area being ‘right near where Butch’s* friend was murdered,’ to ‘I have to go to that Indian doctor later this week.'”
Friend 2: “I look forward to your alone time. That is a lot to process.”
*When you’re white trash (as I am), there’s always a Butch. Fact. I know two. If you’re really lucky, you’ll get a “Butchy.” But you have to BELIEVE.
I saw a white-trash hoodrat outside a convenience store, and he was wearing a Nike shirt that said, “Damn, I’m good.”
First thought: “I bet you’re not.”
Second thought: “At what, evading child support?”
I’m going to hell.
In case any of you ever wonder how I turned out this way, I submit as People’s exhibit A that Easter conversation with my family involved talk of gimp masks, furries, and the “classy” sex shop in the area.
Not at dinner proper, mind — we waited until dessert. We’re white trash, not barbarians.