My life is ruined yet I am taunted by hope. My boss approved my expense budget – for £30. Sarah hasn’t spoken to me since her husband yelled my name during sex - my whole name, including the middle bit. As if I would have her husband. He’s irrational. Overweight. And shit in bed.
I want to be with Stuart but he refuses to answer my calls, emails and texts. He’s chosen Berit even though she’s all wrong for him. You may think I’m jealous, but in my experience, once a drug-running hooker, always so. Her tits are massive, but has she read the classics?
She's not worthy. I owe it to him – to our former love – and the love we’ll share in the future - to get rid of her. I’ve taken a flat across the street. And a part time job to pay for two flats. It’ll be worth it.
It has to be.
I called Stuart to share our news: I’m pregnant with his baby. I heard him tell the secretary he wasn’t in. I went by his work. He snuck out the back. I called his mobile. Berit, whore du jour, answered.
“He died,” she said.
“Bitch, do I sound lucky?” I said. She hung up.
She called back from a remote location. I knew she would. Her kind always does.
She asked what I wanted. I asked what she wanted. She asked again. I repeated myself.
“I’m pregnant,” she said. “With Stuart’s child.”
I hung up. I called back. “Me too,” I said.
She hung up. She called back. “No you’re not,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“I know you,” she said. “I’ve been you.”
She hung up. She's not pregnant, but will be. Just as soon as her period is over.
But enough about her. Why is my life so difficult? All I want is a man to love me. And our unborn child, come to that - if it must.
Last week, my mother was institutionalized after finding my father in bed with a dog. I had her committed. Yesterday I discovered my worthless father is having an affair. The only thing wrong with my mother is her vision. I left her in the asylum on principle.
My brother joined the army. Two weeks later he went AWOL. In our parent’s basement. I bring him food under cover of darkness three times a week. I would never survive a women’s prison, but what can I do? He’s family. (Supposedly.) I've given until I'm empty.
Does anyone consider Seonaid? I'd end it all if I thought someone would find me in time to pump my stomach. Such anxiety beats in the heart of every single woman. Still, I feel alone.
I could be pregnant with Stuart’s child. If this were a just universe. I curse each egg that succumbs to the relentless and bloody ritual of menstruation. With these ovaries, this uterus, I'm destined to die alone.
Dear Readers:
As Mercury drags his feet ever backwards, my life is drawn into chaos. Three men, all of them ex-boyfriends, each a loser in his own right, none of them sober, called last week. I am beset by present options, yet disgusted by past choices. It's better to be alone than with the wrong man. Right? Always. Don't you think?
Bodean: one-time fiancé, slurry with the home brew, crying after a toss-up with his momma. He’s living with her on the east end of town. (There’s a mouth begging to be silenced by some knife-crime.) He seemed surprised by my lack of interest. I am anxious for her to make herself known to their neighbors but why Bodean thought I'd be sympathetic is a mystery that endures to this very hour. And that call came on Tuesday.
On Wednesday I opened my door to delivery-man Daniel, emotional and neurological epileptic. He bore the flowers I’d sent to myself. To make dead neighbor Gary jealous. Before he died. Epic fail, as they say. Daniel and I made angry love by the fireplace. Twice. My nails are still filthy with coal dust. Daniel denied the circumstantial nature of our sex and called to schedule an after hours delivery. I spent the night drinking. In my tub. Alone. Second-guessing my decisions. Analyzing the boggy, stagnant quagmire of my love life. Googling ways to restore a mobile that's been thrown into the toilet. As is my custom.
Yesterday it was Tristan, the man I drink to forget – most nights. Tristan embodied the change he wanted to see in the world. I did not admire this about him. We started out with a Sunday morning church date, to atone for the sins of our Saturday night. It was endearing – the way he asked my name over our shared waffle, mispronounced it between sips of our mimosa, how he held my hand as he led me into the sanctuary, almost fearful I might escape. Would that I had thrown myself into traffic, dear readers.
When Tristan slid his £2 into the collection bin, I wondered but didn’t ask if that was truly 10% of his income. But how could I doubt this saint of a man, even if he was a complete sinner between the sheets? The sex was...compelling, when supply equaled demand, but eventually I could not keep up.
It all came to an apocalyptic end during bible study. Mother Universe, in Her ineffable wisdom, chose not to end my torment with one well-placed smite. Although She was asked. Repeatedly. Weekly devotionals were tribulation enough, but I was on holiday. In the middle of the Caribbean with a thong up my ass. Who did this bastard think he was, booking his dead God on our vacation? I am a tolerant girlfriend, but even I have limits.
It turned out Tristan only wanted a donation. He’s cutting out to New Zealand. I’m sure he’ll find someone who needs reforming. I pledged £2. I think he's worth it.
~xo Seonaid
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