by Jane Etarie
LADIES—
HAVE YOU HAD YOUR HEART BROKEN?
DO YOU FEEL BETRAYED AND ALONE?
ARE YOU PREGNANT AND DON’T KNOW WHERE TO TURN?
I CAN HELP
—RED SHOE
GIRLS,
ARE YOU PREGNANT? ALONE? NOBODY KNOWS?
ARE YOU CONFUSED? LOOKING TO ABORT?
STOP.
THERE ARE OTHER OPTIONS.
$$$$$$
—RED SHOE
The thing is, you try to do something good, and people take advantage. They think it's fucking funny. Like some big joke. It didn't take long for all the trolls to come out. And the religious people, who like wanted me to join their cults, or to protest in front of some gyno's or abortionist's office or some shit.
Everybody responded except for the girls that I was trying to help. I had to take down the ads, there was too much bullshit. Too many assholes. And I think the police were looking into it. Maybe I'd try again in a couple weeks, without the Red Shoe.
I also tried to make some pregnant friends online. I switched from Pregnationdivas.com to Futuremilf.com. The website's way better, almost as nice as Prana's. There's like lots of discussions, lots of users and threads. The pictures are awesome too. Shit like a pregnant gut being held from behind by a pair of strong man hands. Black hands on a white belly. Very striking. Maybe like he's trying to steal the baby?— no he doesn't want it. There's one of like a lady pulling up her blouse to show off her pregnant gut, and she's like draping roses over it. There's hot pregnant women doing yoga on the beach. There's one of a pretty pregnant woman smiling and eating salad. And there's a nerdy-hot girl with bangs, wearing dark rimmed glasses. She's curled up on a comfy chair, with her fat belly and a good book.
I found a few girls in my area, at nearly the same stage of pregnancy. I inboxed all of them a couple of times. You know, see if they wanted to get together, do whatever. Shoot the pregnant shit. Two girls responded. So I sent them each like another half dozen or so messages, seeing when they wanted to meet or get in touch. One girl put me on Ignore and the other girl canceled or changed her account. Whatever, I don't give a shit. They can get raped or stabbed in the gut for all I cared. I got enough friends anyways.
Phil Collins
I had no idea it was that bad. I mean, a couple of people in my building looked at me all weird on the way in. And my face felt puffy and my vision was getting blurry, but I had no idea it was that bad until Boo started freaking out and I looked in the mirror. And then I freaked out.
I'm not even lying. I looked like that dude with the big ginger head in Mask. That one with Cher in it. And she's got this retarded kid with a head the size of a watermelon. He like fucks this blind girl, like tricks her, because she can't see how ugly he is, and then he dies. It's pretty sad, and like a true story or some shit. But maybe I really looked more like that gross thing in The Goonies. That thing that like kept cupping the fat kid's tits and licking his face on the pirate ship.
Anyways, it was that bad. Like for real. My face was swollen so much that my eyes were barely open. I was breaking out in hives and it was getting harder to breath. I looked disgusting. I started to cry, I started to panic. I was hyperventilating. Boo calmed me down enough to convince me to follow him. When we got to the door I freaked out and told him I couldn't go outside looking like this. Like some hideous monster. He just grabbed his jacket and threw it over my head and told me he was driving me to the hospital. He told me that I had to calm down, that I had to calm down for our baby.
I didn't calm down, but he managed to drag me to the Escalade. And I don't know how many times he asked, but he was all like, What happened? What the hell happened? I was bawling and hysterical. And when I calmed down enough to hear him, I said it was a raccoon. Some raccoon in the alley that was digging around in a bucket of chicken. Washing a drum in a puddle with his quick little hands. And he went nuts, like freaked out when I got too close to his bucket. Started hissing, screeching. Beat the shit out of me.
I don't even know why I said it was a raccoon. I'd heard somewhere before that raccoons could be mean nasty creatures if provoked. But I've never seen one in the city.
So when we got into Emergency, Robert explained to the girl at the desk that I had been attacked by a raccoon. That it probably had some diseases, that something horrible was happening to me. I was pregnant, he told them. They needed to hurry. I felt bad for him. His story sounded insane. My poor Boo. The dirty looks and whispers he was getting in the ER.
I was lucky though. They got me in fast. The doctor was old. Like forty, fifty maybe. He had that longish curly hair that made him look like a dyke. He gave me some shots. Like some cortizone or antihistamines, and a tetanus shot. He checked my heart rate, blood pressure, the usual doctor shit. Cleaned the scratches on my face and tits. He told me he'd never dealt with raccoon attacks, but that the allergy symptoms should clear up soon and that I'd probably have to get rabies shots as a precaution. I tell him not to worry about it, that I've had my rabies shots.
And I don't know why I didn't tell Robert it was a cat. It was no big deal. I was out of my head, I guess. There's this cat, I don't know if he's a stray or lives nearby, but he's a friendly cat, and he comes to the alley where I smoke at work. I don't smoke at our building anymore, because I don't need all the nasty stares and the judgement and gossip. And there's also this weird chick who's like bald and real tall and fat. She wears a mumu and walks around barefoot. Even in the cold and rain. She must be fucking nuts, or maybe she's a cancer patient. But she looks exactly like a grown baby, and she comes by our smoke pit everyday and asks for a cigarette, and frowns like she's sad when you say no. Fuck her. She can go buy her own cigarettes, they're expensive.
Anyways, I smoke about a block away behind this cafe where this cat comes by, they're always leaving him food at the back door. I've seen other smokers pet him sometimes. They call him Mr. Hugginsauce. But I call him Phil, because he's got the Phil Collins airstrip on top of its head.
So I was having a smoke, and there was no one else around, just me and Phil, and I was scratching his airstrip. I picked him up and he was purring. And then, I don't know, I guess I was reaching, fumbling around in my handbag and I was trying to hold Phil with my left arm and it's just awkward. He's like adjusting his position. So when I pulled the knife out and tried to stab him, he kind of got all sketchy, like climbed up my shoulder, and I missed and cut his leg or tail and nearly stabbed myself.
So Phil freaks out. Just screeches and howls and claws at my face, and I drop the knife and try to rip him off. Only he's clawing my arms and tits and hair and I can't get pry him loose. That cat really beat the shit out of me. And when he's nearly done killing me he jumps off and runs around the corner.
It was a stupid idea. Even if I had stabbed him, I would have gotten cat blood all over my jacket. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. And I kind of liked the cat, even.
Anyways, I was a mess. There was like no one in the alley, but I thought I heard the cafe door being unbolted. So I picked up my knife and my bag and I fucked off real quick. I called work and told them that I was sick and I couldn't make it back in. My head was like dizzy. I knew I was allergic to cats but I had no idea that it was that bad.
But honestly, at that moment, I was mostly worried that Phil had ruined my tattoo. If only it had been colder out and I'd buttoned up my jacket more. I have this beautiful black and white portrait of Oprah on my left tit, and that cat had absolutely mangled it.
It's just water
I bought the baby some clothes. Real cute stuff. There was a pink shirt that said In Your Wildest Dreams that had like a fluffy sheep jumping a fence on it. There was a beautiful baby safe sequinsed one that said Innie on it, because there's no fucking way my baby's going to have some big ugly knob hanging off her belly like a penis. I'd cut that thing off with the razor myself.
I found them at the mall. Like when I was looking around for holiday ideas. Like for presents and shit. I kind of got
it in my head that Robert would propose around Christmastime or New Year's, before the baby arrived. It only made sense. So I was looking at diamonds, like at rings. But I was just setting my self up for disappointment. Robert could never afford the ones that I wanted, like the ones big enough to see. And I felt this sudden overwhelming wave, like that I was going to start bawling, so I left. There was a shitty looking guy outside the store, stooped over by the window, looking at his phone. He was like taking pictures of this diamond poster— The Oracle Collection— and he was all like quiet, How do you like me now? How do you like me now, bitch?
Maybe it was just the holidays, but there was a lot of the mentally ill out. Like a guy who was six inches from a wall twisting his arms, doing a Balinese looking dance with his shadow. Some chick in a housecoat who looked normal but was whispering to a friend that wasn't there. And some Indian who I assumed was drunk at first, yelling at the top of his lungs, Get off my bus! Get the fuck off my bus or I'll call the police! There was no bus or anybody nearby except for me. I walked away faster and could still hear him yelling over a block away. But these lunatics made me feel better about myself. Like it didn't matter how lame my holidays were going to be, at least I wasn't them.
It's not like I was stressed though. A lot of people are stressed by the holidays, but not me. I was busy, for sure, but I really didn't give a shit if I got everything done or not. It's not like I was going to sweat my sack off over some dumb turkey or other bullshit. Fight with a bunch of retards in the mall over holiday gifts. Pregnancy was my excuse for everything now. I was like having a difficult one. And I didn't need the extra stress— or the baby might fall out, or die in my womb.
And I didn't have any family for Christmas dinner anyways. I haven't spoken to my mom in years. The last time we talked, she didn't approve of my lifestyle. Like what I did for extra college money. There was a couple videos online, I guess. Some fucking perv she knows found them. And I was all like, It wasn't me, it wasn't me. I swore up and down it wasn't me. Only the girl looked exactly like me, and was wearing my high school cheerleader uniform. But whatever. I didn't give a shit. If some geezer wants me to suck his gray old dick after it's been up my asshole and then drink his pee, fine— I'll take his three hundred and fifty bucks. It's just water.
So I was thinking of going to the staff Christmas party. It was a free dinner, free drinks. I could bring Boo if I wanted, but I'm pretty sure he wouldn't want to go. He'd be too busy. Hanging out at Tyler's, no doubt. Playing video games. Drinking and smoking. I don't know. Whatever. I wasn't even going to bother telling him. I'm getting too fat anyways. I don't want to like buy a dress that I'm never going to wear again. Maybe I'd just pop in for a few free drinks and leave.
Boo was leaving for Christmas. His parents bought him a ticket to go visit them for the holidays. I can't say I minded. Maybe they'd get me something nice. Have Robert bring it back for me. I mean, I don't know them— and have never like met or spoken to them— but you'd figure they would want to give the mother of their grandchild a nice Christmas gift. Unless they were like Jews or Jehovas or some shit
And honestly, I was looking forward to having the place to myself. Robert was getting to be a real fucking slob. Seriously. Like leaving his smelly socks and beer cans and shit all over the place. Letting his dirty dishes pile up. I was getting real sick of nagging him and throwing all his shit in the garbage. His mother can clean up after his lazy ass for a week.
He was kind of excited though. Like he'd heard about all the shit that the New Year's baby was going to get. Free diapers for a year, free babyfood, free money. Liquorshack was giving away a case of champagne. The zoo was offering to take a pictures of the baby with new white lion cubs. There was like three of them, they were so cute.
I broke it to him that it wasn't going to happen. End of January most likely, maybe February. And he just gave me this look, like the retarded kid who just found out you can't play that rough with your new puppy. I felt horrible for him.
I still haven't figured out what to get him for Christmas yet. But I'm not too worried about it. I don't know, his jeans are getting pretty gross.
The cyclists are gay
I hit this cyclist on the way to work today. It was no big deal, really. I mean, I think I more like clipped him. It was an accident. But he was an idiot anyway. Seriously, who the fuck rides a bicycle in the winter? I guess he didn't like that I drove too close to him or some shit and he like fingered and yelled at me. Like he feels brave yelling at a girl. So I turned right when he was going straight and he smashed into my car like a retard. I ran over the front of his bike and dragged it for half a block maybe. Some of his cyclist friends stopped to help him and were all like freaking out. I wasn't going to turn around to see if he was ok. It's not like I'm a fucking doctor.
Whatever, I didn't care. It was all good. I checked the Escalade and there were like no dents or scratches. I went online to check the local news, traffic reports, police scanners. Nothing. I think I was in the clear. I felt better, a little relieved. And you know what? I was glad I hit him. It was the right thing to do, like Karma. Teach Asshole a lesson. Honestly, I hate the cyclists. The cyclists are gay. I mean, I guess not all of them are, but it's like ninety percent ruin it for the rest of them.
They think that they are better than us. Like they're doing us all a big favor by riding their bikes. Like they're saving the planet. Like we owe them or some shit. They should go live in a country where people have real problems.
I don't like their lycra. I don't like their helmets. I don't like their big legs and skinny arms. I don't like their swag. I don't like how they all take steroids and shit and lie about not taking them. I don't like how they stink when they get to work. I don't like how they ride on sidewalks and run reds and don't signal and go wherever they want. And I absolutely hate how they hog the lanes. Like it would kill them to move over a few inches. Like they're the ones paying the gas taxes and the the carbon taxes. It's like they just don't give a shit.
I was walking by this greenspace a couple of months ago. I saw some dumb bitch training her child to ride a bike. Another fucking cyclist. I can't tell you how much this kid sucked. The little girl was riding a bike with training wheels that had no business having training wheels anymore. And mom's all like, You can do it! I'm your biggest fan! I'm your biggest cheerleader! S—A—G—E... Sage! I wanted to puke. I wanted to shove that little animal off the bike. It's not like she did anything special. Most kids that age can ride bikes without training wheels. No wonder they all grow up feeling entitled, like it's ok to do whatever they want. Selfish pricks.
And this is the problem. There are a lot of lame parents. Like a lot of lame parents. They think it's all about them. Like they can take their screaming brat anywhere, that no one will mind. Like they can pull their ugly tit out and everybody had just better accept it. Like the world needs to change for them or some shit.
At least one of them got roadrash on their balls today.
I looked at some exercise routines online. New Years was coming up, and I for sure needed to lose some weight. I looked through Urban Baby Mother. I was pretty sure that I was going to enroll in a baby massage class. I read about breast feeding and peanut butter— like the dangers. And I read how some crazy British bitch wrote a book about skipping the puree stage of feeding. I also read about plagiocephaly, like how a baby could get a flat head. It was usually a lazy baby with low muscle tone. I was definitely going to sign us up for the mother/infant yoga class. I wasn't going to have a flat headed freak.
I decided I that was going to leave work sick for the rest of the day. I finished the jar of Little Monkey Banana Kiwi Mush. It was pretty good, but I like the Little Monkey Banana Berry Lime a little better. So far, the Baby Foodie Peaches and Cream Dream is my favorite. This other shit I tried, Baby Planet Apple Pear Puree tastes like shit. Like green chalky pear shit.
Returnal
The young man at the counter looked very gay. He was leaning on
it with one elbow, looking at his nails, and lisping into the phone. Probably talking about some gay shit. Maybe to his boyfriend. His skinny ass stuck out like he was looking to get it filled. He was arching his back like any good porn director would tell his actress to do.
So I was like looking around, acting all casual, waiting for him to get off the phone. And then he's all like, I'd better go, Gerald, ok, ok, I'll talk to you later, goodbye, yup, me too, ok, bye.
And then he smiles and asks if he can help me.
I don't know what the hell Robert was thinking. Like he felt guilty about not fucking anymore or some shit? Like he thought I actually wanted this? He bought me some lingerie that I'd barely fit into when I wasn't this fat, and a vibrator. He said he was going to buy one of those real big wobbly ones, but the lady who was working recommended the small egg looking one.
So I hand the clerk my vibrator and explain my situation to him. He looks at it in the palm of his manicured hand. And then he picks it up— like a teabag, with his two polished fingernails— and drops it on the counter with this disgusted look on his face. This look like I'd just handed him my used rag. Some filthy bloody AIDS rag that I'd just shared with a hooker and homeless man and pulled out of my asshole. And he explains to me that without the packaging, without the tags, he couldn't take this merchandise back, that there is a No Return Policy on opened sex toys and undergarments.
And I tell him that I couldn't help it, that my idiot boyfriend thought he was smart and wrapped it in an electric sander box, that there was no packaging. But look— I still had the receipt. I hadn't used it. And he's all like, Well, you can try returning it back to the manufacturer as defective. And so I was all like, Well, couldn't you do that for me? Wouldn't it be easier for you? I'll take credit or an exchange, I tell him. It's not like I was trying to rip him off. It's not like I was dissatisfied with the product.
