Gone Bitch: A Parody of Gone Girl

Okay, let me set the scene for you: my friends and I (I can’t remember which ones because they change every few weeks) are sitting at a tapas bar in Soho. We’ve shared some tapas, or at least I think they were tapas. I have no idea what tapas actually means. But girls think it’s cool when you say you’ve been to a tapas bar, so I always pick a tapas bar when planning a night out.

We decide to invite our husbands by for drinks, so we text them. All of the other girls’ husbands text back that they’ll stop by, because they know they’ll be punished if they don’t. But not Nick. Nick doesn’t even text back.

I know Nick has a deadline tonight, and that he’ll be fired if he leaves work to come over here. But that doesn’t make me any less mad that he doesn’t come.

It’s not that I have money and therefore Nick’s having a job doesn’t matter to me. It’s that Nick’s having anything doesn’t matter to me. What matters is whether I am winning versus other girls, whether they’re jealous of me or not. And right now, I am definitely not winning. I am losing.

Nick calls typical husbands “dancing monkeys” because they’re at their wives’ beck and call. But what happens to dancing monkeys that won’t dance? They get sold to the cosmetics lab for experimentation. I hope Nick likes the feeling of his eyes being burned away by toxic mascara.

This is an unmitigated disaster. I have completely lost face tonight. Someone please kill me.

Hmmmmmm…now there’s an idea!