The Dancing Monkey Who Was No Dancing Monkey

"I wanna dance," she texted.

"Then dance," I fired back.

It had been over a month since we last talked, and I could smell the stench of her selfish intentions from across town.

"No silly, I mean I want to go out dancing–with you. Lol." 

"You can do that from where you're at–I do, every night as a matter of fact, while everyone sleeps." I responded.

"Lol. Yeah. You're a good dancer too," she replied.

Her blatant lie was enough to send Me over the edge–I had had enough. It was clear what she was doing. Who did she think I was? Her little dancing Monkey? Here to jig and crash My symbols together to entertain her while her insatiable lesbian lover was out fishing for her next fisting?

My time is valuable, and I have no interest wasting it on SIMP collectors looking to fluff up their scraggly self-worth.

I proceeded to melodramatically initiate a cruel argument, of which I'll omit here–there's children present (but if you'd like to know the exact erratic exchange, DM Me).

I didn't care that she blocked My number. What they can never understand is that I don't need them–I can be entirely content alone. But they, they're a different beast altogether: validation mosquitos who hover over exposed ears, seeking and hunting, hunting and seeking for sleeping victims, and if you're careless, they'll suck the lifeblood out of you.

Fuck that. I'll dance by Myself.