Mona Lisa Lying?

Ok, this is some crazy shiz…so one thing I like to do because I’m a meta-hipster fag, I put up art done by my friends all over my bedroom walls, coupled with a few Banksy’s or David Choe pieces just to cement my kewlness knowledge. Anyhizzles, two nights ago I go out for a coffee or some other beverage (seriously, that wasn’t me furtively chugging a half pint of cheap vodka behind a dumpster). Refreshed by my beverage and a brisk walk whispering fuck fuck fuck under my breath in the wintry Ann Arbor air, I come home 30-45 minutes later to my bedroom utterly desecrated. Well, say what you will it about being a den of debauchery, but the painting Zhraa had just given me the night before was missing, totally fucking with the room’s feng shui. This one was good too, unlike the the piece of shit sunshine tile she bequeathed me a month ago, which in a round about way she and she’s a talented artist, for example:

Regardless, Z (how I’ll refer to here on out from here on out, because fuck all politically-correct pronunciation) gave me this one as gift and I tossed her some adder–egh, $20, I mean. Yeah, I thanked her with a Jackson.

IMG_0019
Z’s Painting

As you can clearly see, she’s a fucking sociopath but in that adorable, endearing kind of way all girls are who will destroy your soul then act like it was all a misunderstanding. Forreally though, she’s a man-eater, so like all destructively creative people do, we’ve become pretty good freakin’ friends, totally nonjudgmental about the other’s glaring flaws.

But back to the scene of the crime…I stood there deep in though, staring at my now semi-barren wall, and scratched my ass a few times for good measure.

Well, the last time I saw her, she was being sort of a bitch to me, and although a few peeps tried to me explain why that was the case, they’re all idiots. I’m not a fucking cheap degenerate, dickholes-who-know-who-you-are.  Still, my gut instinct told me that I had acted like a dick the last night I saw her  (if anything, my behavior was more of a flaccid dick than a tumescent one if ya get my gist), so naturally I assumed she had swiped it back in an act of conniving cuntery. I angrily called her out on it passively-aggressively accused her of stealing it back via text message.

“I’ve been in Flint all week. I left that night I saw you dumbass,” she replied.

Fuck my male intuition failed me again. Now my mind’s racing…

I start wondering, “Do I have a stalker?!?”

Naturally, it’d be a female one, because c’mon, I’m a stud with a dad bod. I figure this babe is so crazily obsessed with me, she’s eliminating any and all female competition. But fucking with me is like playing grade school sports; everyone’s gonna get a participation trophy but most will never play more than 2 or three times before they quit because there’s not much satisfaction for the level of involvement required, many are cajoled into trying out a totally different activity/guy because this one–that is, me, myself, and I–don’t think they’ll make the JV team. Then there’s the talented tenth of girls who for mysterious reasons that will never be discovered nor revealed, find me offensive, perverted, and repugnant. Goddam instagram dimes slinging Fittea for a living, and 8’s with an education always think their shit don’t stink and that you actually clogged the toilet that you haven’t used today…smug pretty bitches, amirite guys?!?

Okay, so reality quickly rushes through me like an adrenaline injection, and I’ve eliminated females entirely from the list of suspects.

Was it a random bum that rushed in through the back door undetected, and fuck it, they figured a pictorial representation of a perpetually melancholic, hopeless-romantic-of-the-feminine-variety would definitely resonate with their local crack and heroin dealer’s artistic sensibilities? Nah, that’s way too specific, plus there’s like 3 iPhones and iPad all lying in plain sight. No hobo has an IQ that high and quirky; usually, they’re all fucking nuts regardless of IQ. And no street dealer gives a fuck about a woman artist creatively processing the end of a heart-rending breakup.

I’m no detective, but this seems like an inside job. After all, I am a shitty roommate. However, all of my inquiries come up empty. Z thinks it’s just someone fucking with me. I just want my friggin $20 painting back. Jesustittyfuckingchrist, the trail has come up dry.

Look At This Fucking Shit!!!

Look at this fucking shit!!!! I mean the upper- right corner.

To be continued…

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