It’s a Friday night. The sound of the train purrs in the distance. My moldy faucet drips occasionally. A picture of a heavily eyelashed giraffe is staring at me while I write. I’m shirtless. I’ve just eaten an entire five ounce package of baby kale for dinner. My skin puckers beneath the tingling goop poop that constitutes the “indian secret” of my face mask.
This is it. This is all. Oh boy.
Today was a day. I was going to buy slutty clothes at the mall because my roommate and I had planned to go clubbing for the first time ever tonight. But then she found herself plagued by such an inability to purge her turd that she eventually was forced to flee our apartment at four in the morning for the safety of her parents’ lavish abode and the comfort of their many available commodes.
So yeah. That’s shitty. Pun intended.
Even though she left, I still decided to venture out and purchase many whorish outfits in the event that my dear roomie’s bowels might be miraculously excavated and our plans for reckless female festivities restored. Except on my way out I grabbed the keys to my home-home and not my apartment and I ended up locking myself out. And I left my credit card in the pocket of my classy coat and not the basic bitch one I had been wearing. And my phone only had thirty percent remaining on its battery and I lacked the prudence to carry a portable charger with me on my way out.
Oh, and I got my period.
I spent the whole day aimlessly wandering the city. I tried fake shopping at one point but had to stop because I felt like too much of a poser. I rode the trains like a homeless person. I read a book about fortune telling that had its first eight-five pages ripped out and listened to a number of crazies in the library talk about how many receipts they’ve kept and how they also, believe it or not, have been sent by the angels.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always thought libraries were weird. It was just surprising to see so many looneys freely parade about the city’s best one. Oh, and that fortune telling book was majorly jerkish. Just because I have small hands, Madame Fabia, doesn’t mean I’m going to be an ornamental wife. My hands are damn fine and damn cute and any respectable gentlesir would be lucky to say they belonged to his spouse.
I called my roommate hour after hour to see if I could grab her keys. Alas, it was in vain. Only as my phone neared death did she finally call me back to say that all I had to do to get back in to our apartment was ask the handyman to let me in, so long as I did so before 5:00 PM.
What the heyhey, life. Today was supposed to be grand. Today was supposed to beckon so many new and eagerly anticipated experiences. I would have been a vivacious fake slut slathered in the frothy downpour of my perceived (though wholly inaccurate) flooziness.
All I did was bounce my bloated self all over the city, ignored many an ogling by strange men with sharp eyes, read a book that sought to insult some of my favorite appendages, and observed the insanity residing inside what was supposed to be the most mundane of places.
What was the purpose of today? Why was it such a misadventure? More importantly, why couldn’t the Universe let my roommate take a dump?
Life is a dumb mystery, I think. One that I somehow keep wanting to solve.
Oh yeah. I never really addressed the horny part. I’m horny. Being single is frustrating. I just want someone to snuggle me and allow me to menstruate on him gently with little to no regret.
Ew. That’s actually a really disgusting thought. I revoke that image.
Still. There must be a reason why it’s called menstruate. If I had a man, I’d gladly struate on him at the beginning of all my cycles.
This is weird. This face mask finally must have leaked through my pores and tainted my mind. I’m going to go wash the goop poop off of my face now and salvage what remains of my brain tissue.
And then watch a rom-com and cry because I will never have as predictable of a storyline.
