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Saint Dirty Face

Tag: DarkHumorTruth

  • “Accidental Cheating” — A Modern Love Myth

    Robert

    Let me guess.

    You were just drinking.

    Gravity betrayed you.

    Clothes fled the scene.

    And somehow—through no fault of your own—you tripped, fell naked, and landed directly on another human being.

    Repeatedly.

    With enthusiasm.

    Possibly rhythm.

    An accident.

    A tragic, slippery, alcohol-fueled misunderstanding. 🍷😇

    Listen… I’ve worked in healthcare long enough to know how accidents actually work.

    They involve ice, ladders, shower curtains, and sometimes a rogue throw rug.

    They do not usually involve:

    Undressing with intent Strategic positioning Consent forms signed with moans

    There is no ICD-10 code for “Oops, I accidentally cheated.”

    Cheating isn’t an accident.

    It’s a series of decisions wearing a Halloween costume labeled “Whoops.”

    You didn’t trip.

    You didn’t fall.

    You didn’t black out and wake up mid-thrust like a confused raccoon.

    You chose the bar.

    You chose the conversation.

    You chose the closeness.

    You chose the moment where you could’ve stopped—and didn’t.

    Alcohol doesn’t make you cheat.

    It just removes the duct tape from your conscience and lets the truth talk.

    And here’s the real kicker…

    If you have to call it an accident, it’s because calling it the truth would cost you something:

    Trust.

    Respect.

    The relationship.

    The version of yourself you pretend to be.

    So no, sweetheart—

    You didn’t fall on anyone.

    You walked there.

    Shoes off.

    Eyes open.

    Fully committed.

    But hey…

    Nice try. 😏

    —

    Saint Dirty Face™

    Stay Dirty. Stay Honest.™

  • Monday’s Back… Like an Unwanted Ex with Hemorrhoids

    Robert

    By Saint Dirty Face

    First, it’s all TGIF smiles and weekend romance, right?

    You flirt with freedom, make love to sleep, and pretend Monday doesn’t exist.

    But come Sunday night…

    Boom.

    Reality backhands you like a bitter ex with hemorrhoids and unresolved trauma.

    I clung to the weekend like a desperate breakup text at 3 AM.

    I refused to let go.

    I went full “Weekend Stockholm Syndrome.”

    And then she arrived—

    Monday.

    With her ugly little inbox full of “urgent” fires that magically burn out on their own.

    Text after text, email after email, and not one of them worth the anxiety they caused.

    So here I am,

    sitting at my desk, yawning so hard I briefly saw my soul.

    Not suicidal—let’s be clear—

    but very much considering ending it all by simply standing up,

    walking out,

    and going back to bed like a man with priorities.

    I slam my energy shot.

    It laughs in my bloodstream.

    I scratch a lotto ticket, praying for salvation—

    and that little bastard whispers,

    “Loser.”

    Right to my face.

    😂 Damn you, lotto gods. You cold.

    But hey, half the workday is over.

    Every tick of the clock is one breath closer to escape.

    I whisper false promises to myself:

    “Tonight I’ll be in bed early. Like a responsible adult.”

    Sure, buddy.

    Let’s not lie to each other.

    Truth is—this leg of my nursing career?

    Hasn’t lit a fire under me in a long time.

    It’s been paint-by-numbers.

    Clipboard dreams and lukewarm passion.

    It’s time.

    Time to find my next forever job.

    Not perfect, just better.

    Give me 7–10 years of purpose and a countdown to retirement that doesn’t feel like watching paint dry in a windowless room.

    But I digress.

    The taint of this job calls,

    and I must go sniff the day’s drama like a good little trauma-trained soldier.

    Tomorrow?

    Tomorrow’s a new dawn. A new day.

    Lotto gods—I know you hear me.

    I’m ready for my miracle. Preferably cash.

    Peace & Love, bitches.

    – Saint Dirty Face

    Stay Dirty. Stay Dangerous.