The Buddhists (is it the Buddhists? Anyway, somebody) believe that we design our own destiny. Like, we pick out our parents and families before we are born. That everything that happens to us in this life was pre-ordained by us. Which makes you wonder… WTF was I thinking?
Well, I reject the teachings of the Buddhists (or whoever – not important. Pay attention). I reject them. I cast off the fur-lined handcuffs of this mortal coil. Starting tomorrow, I manifest a new destiny. (Not the one I tried to manifest last winter. That was bad. I've thought this one through.)
No longer will I be left holding the bag, the remainder on the lease, or the credit card debt on our dream vacation. The one he said he paid for. Right before he disappeared into the jungle with our sherpa, only to return three days later reeking of coconuts, a wicked sunburn on his back and three necrotic spider bites on his nethers. And no memory of having paid the bill. I can’t go on like this.
This Seonaid does not accept destiny – she creates it – along with a line of headbands, inspired by the fearless and peerless Princess Bea.
Divine Designs is coming.
~xo Seonaid
Question: What sort of sister steals your boyfriend, sleeps with his brother and then begs for a set-up with your ex?
Answer: Mine.
We spent the afternoon shopping. Cait helped spend money I didn’t have. For shoes I didn’t want or (apparently) keep. I hope they give her bunions. Not that it would matter. Our men never look at her feet.
I refused permission on grounds that sharing a husband is one degree from inbreeding. They deserve each other, still it chafes. We stopped for Chinese. My fortune said “Wedding bells fill the future.” She snatched it from my trembling hand. I smacked her. She pulled my hair. I spilled my drink. In her face. Hers was empty. I laughed as they led us to the door. She cried. The waiter comforted her.
She slipped his number into her bra when she thought I couldn’t see.
~xo Seonaid
I’ve given up on Stuart. Making a baby out of thin air is exhausting. Not to mention unrewarding. My boobs might have gotten bigger but who wants birthing hips and stretch marks? Not me, friend.
Dylan is relentless in his pursuit. I miss him when he only texts 9 times before noon.
My mind runs riot.
“What does this mean?”
“Was he knifed to death in city centre?”
“Did he perish in a freak motorcycle accident?”
“Is he with another woman?”
Call me irrational and I will point to a diva who's seen it all, lost it all, and is impossible to surprise.
Dylan calls me every night. We talk for hours. Until 7, because he has to feed his dogs. They make it really difficult to build a foundation. (Mental note: get list of shelters.) Dylan says I need personal growth before I’m ready for a relationship with him. He says, sex is liberating and will help me find my core. Maybe, but it seems like a stall tactic. I think he’s afraid to let go and allow himself to love.
~xo Seonaid
Stuart returned this morning looking quite hung-over and more than a little over-sexed. I almost kicked him out. Instead I rinsed his toothbrush in the toilet and left without a kiss.
I turn my hatred inwards, dear reader, but sometimes it runs amok. I imagine how it would feel to stab him with a fork. I wonder if Kate Middleton ever has such thoughts. Does she ever gaze across that expansive table and think, “If only I could hurl this 15th century ivory-handled steak knife into William’s pasty white throat, severing his vocal cords, so that I would never have to hear him laugh like that again”? I wonder.
Tomorrow the country celebrates their love. Today I think, I wish I could sleep through tomorrow. I celebrate this goal. Toward my goal, I have begun drinking whiskey. Thirty minutes ago I switched to shots. I’d like to make a toast. I drink to my oblivion. Stuart is out with our turtle masseuse. He thinks I will never know. I know he will never think where his toothbrush is headed next.
i hate who i am when i'm with him reader. i really do. i really really do.
I spent the weekend with my mother. At the institution. My brother went hungry underground. Who knows where my sisters were, those neglectful bitches. I don't pity my mother, but what did I do to deserve an asylum holiday? Petty gods laugh at my expense. Don't think I am ignorant of this.
My boss enticed me back to work with a free session with Dylan, an organic life coach. I resent his cunning. Everyone has a price, and he knows my price is free.
Dylan is handsome, but he has terrible fashion sense. Flip flops in April, with those toenails? Bamboo fibers will not wear well if you don't put in the work. My soul cries out for the justice that only a lifestyle diva can deliver. Even this promise of heterosexuality could not soothe my anguish. I longed to clasp him to my bosom and heal him of his own personal betrayal. His head was halfway to my chest when I remembered Stuart. Stuart who did not come home last night. Yes. I remembered.
~xo Seonaid
Stuart just left. He brought take away (curry for me, crickets for Hugo) and changed the locks on my door. He had a charity shop remove her things from his flat. Said Berit made threats. She's been ordered to attend anger management classes. A hooker with a heart of darkness. I'd laugh if not for fear of internal rupture.
I told Stuart about our baby. He seemed to take it well. Plumped my pillow. Pinched my breasts. Obviously, we couldn't consumate the relationship. I'm recuperating. Also, my cycle doesn't end until Tuesday. I'm so horny I'm fearful.
~xo Seonaid
Dear Readers,
I write to you from my sick bed. There's been a terrible development. Please believe me when I say, I absolutely never meant for this to happen. In this crazy, random, happenstance universe, through no fault of our own, we are sometimes forced into the wrong place at the wrong time. Like yesterday.
Berit, without provocation, experienced a total loss of control. I don't mind telling you, since you weren't there and must trust my sincere account of this remarkable incident: I've never seen anything like it. I was in front of my flat taking Hugo Turtle for a walk, when all of a sudden, I heard…grunting. I looked across the street and there stood Berit with Stuart. She must have been crying out to me - her mouth was moving but the noises she made…were inhuman. Guttural. It puts me in mind of the Exorcist. Have you seen it? She sounded just like that little girl. Unreal! Just like her.
I’ve never seen anyone navigate such heavy traffic with such speed, agility… not grace, no, but speed and agility kept her from getting hit. Too bad, because, burdened as I was with turtle, I was unable to escape. Helpless to defend against the onslaught. Berit hammered me with her fists, screaming obscenities. My arms, of necessity, were over my head and thus blocked my vision but I imagine Berit didn't look her best. Until the bruises fade, I won't either.
A neighbor called the police. Berit was arrested. I’m filing an order of protection. She’ll be forced from her flat. That’s unfortunate but, as Stuart pointed out, she brought this on herself.
Talking of which, he was very tender towards me and our turtle. He’s stopping by to nurse my wounds. I'm going to tell him about the baby. He deserves to know.
~xo Seonaid
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.
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