Don’t take this personally, but you can’t hang out with us anymore. It doesn’t matter that you were Linda’s maid of honor, the godmother to Cindy’s only daughter, and the surrogate that carried my youngest son. Linda, Cindy and I (Brenda), are officially expelling you as our fourth gal pal. Don’t be upset. After all, your ultimate banishment comes from a place of care (self-care, which, we’ve come to learn, you don’t value). We want to love you, but based on your looks and overall emotional disposition, it’s clear that you don’t love yourself, and we don’t like it.
It just eviscerates us to continue to watch you not develop a regular morning routine, while the rest of us work so hard. Every morning, poor Linda spends a full hour steaming her pantsuit with her very own breath, another hour juicing a family of carrots for her lunch and dinner smoothies, and a third hour organizing her briefcase until she cries. That’s a full three hours before Linda has to leave for work that she spends actively taking care of herself. She’s waking up at 3 am, while you just, “Roll out of bed and hope you get to work on time?” Fuck no, Trish. Just FUCK no.
Oh, and let’s talk about how you don’t even CARE about your body. While the rest of us are busting our asses to look gorgeous, stay fit, and measure up to societal standards of beauty, you continue to “not exercise,” and frankly, it’s unacceptable. Cindy has a child, and she does two hours of cross fit before the sun rises, a full hour of hot vinyasa yoga on her lunch hour, AND swims butterfly laps every night at the YMCA while wearing 40lb weights on her ankles. Cindy’s nearly drowning to make sure she stays healthy, while you just, “Try to walk around and take the stairs when you can?” Let’s just call it Trish. You’re goddamn bitch.
Oh, and enough already with your haphazard eating habits. While Cindy’s eating small portions of unsalted meats to maintain the Ph of her depressed vagina, and Linda’s exclusively munching on carrots and the occasional alfafa sprout to prevent starvation headaches, and I’m only ingesting watered down soylent and whatever I happen to swallow while applying my cocoa butter lip balm, you just, “Eat in moderation, and try not to worry about it?” Just shut the FUCK UP TRISH!
And on top of all that, you don’t even THINK about improving your mental health! We’re not asking you to become an intermediate yogi or locate nirvana or whatever, but would it kill you to appreciate all the work we do on ourselves? Last time I checked, Linda has 93 color coated post-it mantras stuck to her bathroom mirror, Cindy has a $3,000 therapy dog, and I go to karaoke alone, as advised by my therapist, and fight the urge to drink scotch as I belt out Colors of the Wind, while you just, “Try to be happy?” Let’s just say, YOU’RE ABSOLUTELY DEAD TO US TRISH.
That said, we wish you the best. And with that said, please do not contact us ever again. Because we can’t take care of you, if you don’t take care of yourself. So goodbye Trish, FOREVER.
Brenda, Cindy, and Linda