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  • Writer's pictureLeah Jones

I thought it was just that night.

When things are going well, seem special, perhaps I’ve used the word perfect… I have nothing to write about. But when the ASSHOLE tells me, “Uh, I’m sorry, I thought it was just that night.”


Fuck you and your stupid fucking mixed CD with stupid fucking perfect songs and the stupid fucking perfect way you asked to kiss me. FUCK YOU Mr. Perfect Moment.

How do you have moves and lines? How did I fall for that? How did I spend a week thinking I’d found something special. FUCK YOU.

And Fuck you again because my Grandma should have been getting every extra brain cell of mine instead of you. Know what? She’s still going to die.


I take my EQUALLY PERFECT but HONEST kisses back. I take back telling that Goldfinger covered 99 Luft Balloons and that Johnny Cash covered Danzig and for getting 30 seconds of special memories attached to you, your stupid truck, and a Johnny Cash song.

In the couple years I did stand up, I kissed exactly one other comic. When I started hanging out with improv people, I waited until I was positive that the only guy I ever asked out was the one I wanted to use that card on. Now I’ve wasted my FUCKING “kiss a guy from improv” card on you?

FUCK YOU…. you fucking little prick.

Know what else? My grandma–still going to die. FUCK YOU.

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