Well, Actually

by Mazey Eddings

Marinating in my patheticness, I change into my sweatpants, burrow into a nest of blankets, and pour a glass of prosecco. And another. Oops, and a third because in this economy I can’t afford to waste leftover bubbly, and I have far too much class to mix the flat leftovers with orange juice tomorrow morning.

“To fuck around is human, to find out is divine,

Hot Girl isn’t something someone is born as. Hot Girl is an armor you put on.

“You keep saying that, but the bar’s been on the ground, and you keep showing up with a shovel.”

“Next friendship hour I’ll make sure to do a vibe check and let you choose between a wine-and-whine or beer-and-queer so you have a better idea of what you’re getting yourself into.” “Don’t forget the third option,” I say, shooting him a playful look. One of his eyebrows arches up, enjoyment dancing across his features. “Dessert-and-hurt where we trauma dump over cheesecake and espresso martinis.”

“If it isn’t painfully obvious, I’d gladly kiss the ground you walk on if it made you smile, I think you’re that wonderful.”