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We’re donating to the Salvation Army again for Christmas? They hate gay people! Those bell ringers are nothing but homophobic ex-junkie fascists in disguise! Why are we even donating to a religious organization at Christmas! Jesus was born in April!”). So yeah, they prefer if I don’t speak in staff meetings.
I went to a spray-tan salon once, but the woman at the front desk was orange and I was convinced that I would get melanoma just by breathing the same air as her, so I left immediately, after accidentally telling her she looked like a perky blonde carrot.
So, yep. This is my life. Sorry about the info dump I just took on your chest. If you don’t want to keep going, I’ll totally understand, though that still gives me the right to call you a bitch behind your back.
“Helena, you’re up in two,” Charlie called over his shoulder. “Showtime,” she said as she took a deep breath. “Break a falsie.”
After all, one does not scream at lesbians in Doc Martens unless one wants to receive a penis kicking.
I wanted to stand up and tell everyone that Eric apparently had crabs last month, but even I’m not that mean. Out loud, anyway. In my head, I’m the meanest bitch who ever walked the face of the earth.
Is there anything more embarrassing or awkward than having “Happy Birthday” sung to you? Think about it. You’re the center of attention for fifteen to twenty seconds while people sing horribly off-key at your face (with some wit most likely adding in his or her own words to make the song even longer: “Happy birthday to you, cha, cha, cha”). What are you supposed to do during that time? Do you sit there with an idiotic grin on your face while people sing about the day you came out of your mother’s vagina? Do you look down at your hands? Do you sing along with them, only to realize it’s sort of
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“A very… fit-looking fellow.” “Ouch,” I said, my feelings slightly hurt. Charlie rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t a dig against you, boy. You need to stop thinking that everything is about you.” “Ouch,” I said again, my feelings more hurt.
“You have a hunky jock wanting to jump your ball sac and you stayed up here?”
Chapter 3 Dear God: Fuck You
“How did last night go?” Mom asked. “Did you get any play?” “It is way too fucking early for this,” I muttered,
“Don’t do that, Paul. It’s annoying.” “Yes, Paul. Don’t annoy your mother because then she annoys me.”
“Oh course it is, sweetheart. I’m the funniest person in the world.” “That makes me so sad,” I told her.
“You need to be careful with this,” he told me quietly. “I’m not saying this to be an ass, but you already sound like you’re making it about you. You can’t do that, Paul. Not with this. This is obviously a contentious situation as it is, and it’s got to be hurting him quite a bit. You can’t get pissed at him for this. You can’t. Do you understand me?”
I am not going to end up like my parents.” “You mean having a loving marriage thirty-five years later? Yes, Paul. That sounds freaking awful. I don’t know how you’d survive.
