by Jane Etarie
So I phoned him back, but his messages were full. Not bad, universe, not bad. So I texted him. I left him and the universe and the whole shitty world a message. The ace up my sleeve. A sucker punch. A knockout punch. That fucking bomb that killed all those Japanese or Vietnamese or whatever and left that little girl running naked and crying in the street. I felt like what that retard must have felt like after he let everyone know that Glen Green was a pear.
Robert. Please call me. I'm pregnant.
Morning Sickness
I called in sick this morning. I work at Petrus Cheong and Affiliates Global.
I don't know what my job is.
I mean, I kind of know what I do day to day. Like what I'm supposed to be doing. But mostly I do nothing. Like maybe I do an hour's worth of actual work a day. I answer email. Fax signed forms and forms that need signing. Forward messages to my managers. Shit like that. And screening. All sorts of screening. I like screen calls and emails. Personal and business. I'm like a secretary, I guess. But most of the day I'm like on Assbook or downloading music or ordering shit online with the company account.
I got the job through a temp agency. I kind of like checked off all the boxes for work experience and training and shit so that I had a better chance of getting a job. And so far so good. After about a year I'm still working. Only problem is, I don't know what the hell we do. I guess maybe we're like some consultation company or something? Like maybe investments? I don't know. I don't really understand any of it.
Our website says shit like we provide innovation... global clientele... competitive advantage... our winning circle... competitive vacuum... our industry leading services... beacon... murky waters... ability to shift in rapidly changing times... I'm convinced we're good at what we do, only I don't know what that is. And I figure that after a year of working here, I'd sound like a fucking retard if I asked someone what is it we do at Petrus Cheong and Affiliates Global.
Anyway, the pay is pretty good and the work's easy. And everybody likes me.
But I mean, if I could like quit tomorrow, if I could do anything, my dream job would be like secretary at Elle or Vogue or Cosmo. And like maybe one day, I'd impress someone. Like one of the editors. I'd make a really smart comment or suggestion. Or have like a really cool idea. And my immediate bitch supervisor would like knock it down and make an ass out of me. Make me look like a real shit head. Because she hates me. And is like probably intimidated by me— because really she's insecure and stressed out and on pills. Like she's bipolar or some shit. Only the editor would find out about my idea and think it was brilliant. And then my cunt supervisor would like try to take credit for it. Go behind my back. Only the truth would come out eventually, and bitch gets fired, I get hired. And then they'd like give me a sex advice column, or maybe a relationship advice column or some shit.
But like I said, it's a dream job. They only hire skinny little bitches and the gays at those fucking rags anyways.
So I told Brenda that I was puking all morning, which wasn't a lie, and she's all like, You get better, dear. You just rest and drink some ginger ale. And I told Brenda that I would, and thanks, and that I'd see her tomorrow.
But still no call from Robert. He'd call, though. I was sure of it. It was only the morning— he was still sleeping. But honestly, I really didn't care. I just needed a shower. I just needed to wash all the puke out of my hair. And to brush my teeth. To brush the shit off my breath. Just too fucking gross.
And I really need a coffee. A venti. Two ventis. And some ibuprofin. And to go back to sleep.
Starbucks
I was shaking my head, I was so annoyed. Is this no fat whip? You're sure? Three times. I asked her like three times because I was watching her and I could see her grab the wrong whip. Ya ya, she says, it's the right one. And I'm like walking home across the visitor parking lot, drinking this shit, and I swear to god it's just regular fucking whip. And I can't deal with this and it's just too bright out, and I kind of pause and turn, like I'm confused, like I want to go back and throw it in her lying bitch face while it's still hot. Only I don't, I just turn to walk again and wish breast cancer on her. And that's when I see it, right in front of me. My Escalade.
It was parked crooked in one of the visitor spots. I felt like I'd just won the lottery. Honestly, the best feeling in the world is relief. It really is. Like scratching an itch, or taking that piss you were holding for an hour. Or having an orgasm. Like finally getting the results back and you're hep free. Or finding your Escalade after a bender. It's all like a release. Like relief. And nothing feels better.
But what the hell happened? I could barely remember the last couple of days. I remembered this morning. Waking up on the bathroom floor naked by the shitter. I remembered being up like half the night puking. And I don't know if maybe it was like a dream, but I think I remember looking in the bowl and seeing a finger before it got flushed.
And I know what started it all. It was this old lady at work. Like a retirement party. For Frona. She has an old fashioned voice and diabetes. Like she's going blind and shit. She's maybe forty-five, fifty. I hate her perfume. We took her out and got her drunk on her last day.
And I'd like to think that I had something to do with her chasing her dreams. Like I was a certified life coach. I convinced her that her time was too short to be wasted in a shit hole like Petrus Cheong and Affiliates Global. I asked her, Is that computer screen the last thing you want to see? The last thing you see before you go blind? I must have talked to her for an hour. Easy. I was all like, What about all those places you want to go to? The ones you're always talking about? All the things you want to experience? The cities and culture and natural wonder and all that shit? I didn't know what the hell I was talking about. I mean, I barely know her. But I couldn't stop.
So she was going to travel the world. Was off to Africa in a week to climb some mountain and go on a safari. Shoot some elephants or giraffes. I don't know. Maybe she was going to help build a bridge for some AIDS children. Whatever. All I knew was that I thought I'd parked my car and was going to catch a lift or a cab ride home. But I guess I drove. Oh well. No new dents. No animals or children sticking out of the grill. No worries. I didn't care what happened. I was just stoked that I found my car.
So I called 911. The dude asks me my name and my emergency, and I'm all like, No, there's no emergency, I'd just like to report my car unstolen. And I could just tell he was like annoyed, because he gives one of those loud frustrated exhales, like he was all rolling his eyes or shaking his head in disgust. And then he tells me to hang on— he's putting me on hold— he'll put me through to the police department.
I didn't even have to wait a minute, and someone answered. Maybe it was the same chick from yesterday. And I explain to her that I'd reported my car stolen last night. And could she please tell me how to like go about reporting it unstolen? So she starts laughing and asks me my name and all that shit and I answer her questions.
I make up lies about how my boyfriend borrowed it without my knowing. Like it was an emergency. He needed to drive a friend's sick dog to the vet. Like it got into some chocolate or antifreeze. And there was like dogshit, like diarrhea, all over the back seat. He tried to wash it out, but it still reeked— I was going to kill him. But the dog's ok, I tell her. And she just keeps laughing. Unstolen, she says. And I could just picture her shaking her head in like amusement or something on the other end. I liked this lady. And I knew that she liked me and wanted to help me. I make friends real easy.
So I get off the phone with my new friend, and see the message.
Boo
guess we need 2 talk. meet at our spot? 3 ok?
Doubledown
I got to KFC early. Robert is always late so I figured I'd see him in maybe a half hour. I wanted to make sure that I grabbed our booth. That everything would go right. Maybe this wasn't my last shot at saving our love, but I wasn't like taking any chances.
The idiot in front of me wasn't helping any. I hat
ed him. There's always one. They're all the same. The retard who stands in line for like ten minutes and still doesn't know what he wants. Like he couldn't bother looking at the fucking menu while he was waiting. Like he's a machete-attacked-village African orphan or some shit and has never been to the KFC before. And you know that for sure he's going to ask absolute shithead questions. Like can he get bacon instead of lettuce on his Double Crunch Sandwich? Substitute chicken fries for regular fries? For the same price. What a douche. Like the world revolves around him. And he always whines that the fucking price has gone up since the last time he was there, like the teenager listening to his shit is Colonel Sanders.
I feel like sticking his face into the deep fryer. Or asking the the tightwad if he wants a dollar. Like if it will shut him up and make him feel better. But I just can't be bothered. Maybe next time.
When it's finally my turn I order a six piece combo with slaw, fries, biscuit and Mountain Dew for Robert. His usual. And I order chicken strips, bbq baked beans, crispy chicken Caesar salad, a Pepsi, and a Doubledown with two sides of gravy for myself.
The Doubledown is what the idiot in front of me should've been ordering. Every place has got one of them. It's an off menu item that's in the system. Only they don't display it on the menu because some people think it's disgusting. But I don't care I fucking love them. There's like a button for it on the till. It's like a secret code. They'll know what you're talking about. Except for like maybe the new or stupid cashiers.
The Doubledown is two chicken fillets, bacon, and monterey jack slathered in the colonel's sauce with no bun. Sort of like the Land, Sea and Air Burger at McDonald's— a McHamburger patty, Filet-O-Fish and McChicken patty with special sauce on a bun. Fucking gross. And embarrassing to order. Except for like maybe the most shameless of fat pigs. But I don't care, it's worth it. It's like our Secret. You just have to know how to ask for it. Sometimes you have to get out of your comfort zone, like go to extreme measures, to get what you want in life. To live full on.
And this was my cheat day. You've got to have your cheat days. Like reward yourself. I'm like Oprah's biggest fan. Ever. I love Oprah. I could go on and on about how much I love her. The billions of dollars she's made, her struggle with weight, the things she does for people, the list is too long. She should be president, or like a Pope or Dalai Lama or some shit. Seriously. She is like an amazing person. And Oprah knows what I'm talking about. Me and Oprah are into being conscious eaters.
What me and Oprah and Eckhart Tolle understand is that you have to bring a higher level of awareness to your eating. It's like, food is not there for you to stuff your face with any time that you're feeling crazy or depressed or emotional. You can't fill those kinds of holes with food. I have prescription medication to deal with my emotions. Food is like a decision. You should make healthy choices and know about the food you're going to eat. And you should enjoy your food, not just inhale it like some fucking fat kid left alone in a room with cake.
But a cheat day is very important. It's like a conscious decision. Like part of conscious eating. Where you say to yourself, You know what? You've been eating what you're supposed to be eating. Local, organic, fair trade, cruelty free. All that shit. And like helping fight corporations and politicians and globalization. Helping save the environment and the planet and shit. Doing everything you should be doing. So now you deserve a treat. A reward. Like you can spend a day eating as much of whatever the fuck you want. Just force-feed yourself. Binge. Because you and Oprah and Eckhart Tolle understand that sometimes, you deserve it.
I missed the last week's cheat day because of my cleanse. And I didn't really include the binge drinking as a cheat day because that's like a special occasion that I had no control over. And you can't just like say to people, No— I'm not going to your going away party because it's not my cheat day. That's like fucking ignorant. Like selfish. So I figured I was allowed a good cheat day. I mean, you have to live in the moment.
I found our table. Some ugly girl with freckles and braces was hovering around looking for a place to sit and I just gave her a nasty glare and sat down. This booth was special. It was our booth. Me and Boo always sat here. I gave him a handjob here, even.
So I just sat and ate and waited. I was kind of nervous. Excited.
I finished dipping the last of my Doubledown into the gravy and threw the wrappers onto the floor under the table behind me. And there was Robert. He was about to go into the lineup. I smiled and waved for him to come over. He was wearing his white Throwdown shirt with all the sequinced silver tribal designs and skulls on it. The one that said Unbeaten. Unbowed. And his baggy jeans. He only had the one pair but they were like perfectly stained and distressed. He had on his Docs. And his dark hair was like cut real short for the summer. He looked so hot.
Robert sat down and was all like, Hey, thanks for ordering for me. And he asks if I want some chicken because all I had left was a bit of salad, and I was all like, No, I'm not hungry. I'm good. I'm fine with salad, thanks.
And so he shoves some fries into his mouth and squirts ketchup onto his chicken and he's all like, Uhhh... so you're uh, so you're pregnant? You're like, uh, you're sure that you're pregnant? And I was all like Ya, I'm sure that I'm pregnant. And then he's like, But I uh, I thought you were on the pill?
And I can see where he's going with this, and it just annoys me, so I'm all like, Ya, I am on the pill, but I guess it didn't work, huh? So we're both sitting there all quiet and he keeps eating and then he goes, Well, uhhh... what do you want to do? Like, uh, what were you thinking... what are you planning on doing?
And I can totally tell that he wants me to abort. That he'd go out and steal the clothes hanger if he had to. Like if he had a car, he'd drive me to some Chinatown tattoo parlor restaurant where they performed abortion on the side. And then he asks if there's a morning after pill or something that I could take— have I thought of that? And if I'm sure that it's his.
And I just gasped. Like I was shocked. My mouth just dropped open like a retard's. I couldn't believe that he would even ask me something like that. For real? And I just started to tear up, I wasn't even faking. And my voice was all like quavery and loud and I was all like, What? Are you fucking serious? Really? Fine! If you don't want to take responsibility for this, then... then fine... You can just fuck off. Alright? Just fuck off. That's what you wanted anyways? Right? To fucking dump me? Well you know what? I don't even want your help with our baby. I'll fucking do it all by myself. I don't need your goddamn shitty help.
And then he finally stops staring at his fries for a second and looks at me. And he touches me, like just barely touches my fingers. And then he says sorry. So I keep crying and I lean into him, like we're hugging across the table. And I'm getting gravy and shit on my tits and I don't even care. He just keeps consoling me, like all gentle and quiet, like he's not even saying anything, just hugging. And it doesn't matter— he doesn't have to say a word. I know I've got him right where I want him.
TP
I don't know if it was like the cleanse or whatever, but I totally had to take a shit. I insisted on giving Robert a lift to work, and he was already waiting in the SUV. Gary-Joe Noblett's foot was falling off or whatever, so Robert took his late shift for him. It was the least he could do, he said. Everybody liked Gary-Joe. His coworkers and the community were like really pulling for him. They raised some money to help with medical bills. Like with change jars and bowling or some shit. Robert is always thinking about others that way. That's just the kind of guy he is. I'm like so glad that we're back together again.
Anyways, I fucking hate using public washrooms. They are absolutely disgusting. I get so grossed out when I think of like all the germs and shit and piss. And really, what kinds of people use these things? Just way too nasty. Just so fucking gross. But this was an emergency. So I like layed the toilet paper on the seat and sat down.
When I finished, I grabbed the roll of toilet paper and put it in my handbag, and I washed my hands.
My hair and makeup looked fine, even after getting all teary. Then I took my log, which I had wrapped in the tissue, and dropped it in the sink. It landed perfect. Like the leaning Tower of Pisa.
I ran the dirty wad of TP under the tap, and threw it hard at the mirror. I washed my hands again and left quick before anybody else came in.
Little Hussies
I'm not a religious person, But I am spiritual. It's like, I don't believe in anything, but I do believe there is something. I know a lot of people say that these days. Like it's popular. But I was like that way before they started saying it. Like before it became like all trendy.
I consult my cards and numbers online. I am a Nine, which makes me like a nurturing personality, which is so true. The most spiritual people— and usually the best people— are all nines. We're like compassionate and idealistic. Like we care deeply for the world. You can probably guess famous Nines without even printing their names and doing the math.
I drew my cards. And I was like, for real? I can't believe how accurate these things are, it's scary. I drew the The Wheel, The Queen of Cups, Three of Cups, The Empress, Ace of Wands, Star, and Nine of Pentacles. I might as well have started shopping for baby clothes.
And I almost did. I looked at pregnancy sites for hours, and I googled all sorts of pregnancy shit. What are the best foods to have smart babies? What are the best foods to have healthy babies? What are the best foods to have sexy babies? Can baby get my std? Most popular children clothing. Maddox baby clothes. Angelina baby clothes. Popular baby strollers. Popular cribs. Gwyneth baby care. Do babies have finger and toe nails when born? Baby yoga. Baby Pilates. Baby massage. Psychic connection to baby. Vegan baby food. Organic baby food. Toddler beauty pageants. Baby names. Best babies. Stop baby crying. Is it safe to give baby alcohol? Baby models. How do I get my baby into modelling? How do I get my baby into acting? Pill for hard odorless shit.
