Saturday's Storyteller: "I'm not your monkey."
by Belinda Roddie
I'm not your monkey. I'm not your puppet. I'm not your toy you can play with. There's no wind-up key on my back, no strings, no fur on my arms and no tail. I am not here to dance, or sing, or chirp like pretty machinery. So you can back off with the controlling nonsense.
I saw you with a new girl the other day. My god, do I feel bad for her. I hope she understands how manipulative you are and runs. You text me every day, anyway, begging me to come back and do your bidding. Well, kiss my ass, evil ex-girlfriend; I ain't your Cinderella anymore.
I found someone who lets me forge my own path. I've decided to go into blacksmithing. Yes - blacksmithing. Still a thing in the modern era. I'm gonna think of you every time my hammer slams down on the anvil. Clang, clang, motherfucker. That's your sorry excuse for a head.
So don't bother asking for the "good ol' days." These aren't rose-tinted goggles - I can see all the flashing sirens from my pair of shades. And hey, maybe I'll figure out your new girl's name, snag her phone number, and text her a warning or two so she doesn't become your monkey, either.
Oh, and stop texting me. I can block your number. I have the power. I have the technology.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie.
I'm not your monkey. I'm not your puppet. I'm not your toy you can play with. There's no wind-up key on my back, no strings, no fur on my arms and no tail. I am not here to dance, or sing, or chirp like pretty machinery. So you can back off with the controlling nonsense.
I saw you with a new girl the other day. My god, do I feel bad for her. I hope she understands how manipulative you are and runs. You text me every day, anyway, begging me to come back and do your bidding. Well, kiss my ass, evil ex-girlfriend; I ain't your Cinderella anymore.
I found someone who lets me forge my own path. I've decided to go into blacksmithing. Yes - blacksmithing. Still a thing in the modern era. I'm gonna think of you every time my hammer slams down on the anvil. Clang, clang, motherfucker. That's your sorry excuse for a head.
So don't bother asking for the "good ol' days." These aren't rose-tinted goggles - I can see all the flashing sirens from my pair of shades. And hey, maybe I'll figure out your new girl's name, snag her phone number, and text her a warning or two so she doesn't become your monkey, either.
Oh, and stop texting me. I can block your number. I have the power. I have the technology.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie.
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