Fuckin’ Loser

“Come on, say it,” my best friend insisted. I laughed if off. I didn’t like to think of past partners in such a negative light. I spent the past six months with this one, and I had fun. I really did. We got on really well, and I really believed we would be together for a long time.

But we were never exclusive.

I wanted to be exclusive. I liked him a lot. He led me to think he really liked me. But every time I asked, it was the same excuse. “I’m not ready.” When I asked why, I was serenaded with sweet nothings disguised as kisses and “I love you, but…”

One night he told me, “You should enjoy being single!” Despite sleeping over multiple nights a week, despite our late night drives and intimate conversations, I was still single in his eyes.

I tried to convince myself I was okay with it. I went out, flirted with other guys, got plenty of numbers. I told myself this was perfect. I was free to be young and reckless, while still having a man to come home to. But with all the other men I met, they never measured up. I couldn’t feel the same way about these men, as I did about him.

But he never wanted me. He never cared about me at all. If he had, I would have gotten more than just a text reading, “We need to talk,” as our official break-up.

“He’s a fuckin’ loser!”


Dead Dog

It’s like looking at a dead, old dog. My unmade bed with his blanket lain in it. Just two days ago, his naked body slept intertwined with mine under the blanket he brought over, keeping the two of us warm where each other couldn’t.

Now, that blanket, lifeless in your bed, it’s a dead pet. It’s your family dog you adopted when you were six. You loved him so dearly, but as he crept into old age, as his face grew more grey every week, as his hips gave out, you had to nurture him more and more, mashing his food for him because his teeth had rotten, carrying him home when he tired out on his daily walks. It killed you to think of his time running out, so you took care of him as long as you had to.

And when the day finally came, you cried hysterically over his limp, lifeless body.

Then you felt relief. You didn’t want to admit it, but you knew your life would be a little bit easier. You knew you could move on now.


Have a nice fucking day, dickhead. 

I want to so badly.  I weigh the pros and cons of mouthing off to this sexist, bigoted customer who’s been yelling at me for fifteen minutes about something completely out of my control.

Pros: I feel good for standing up to this pathetic excuse for a human.

Cons: I lose my job. I make a big scene. I lose the respect of a lot of people who thought of me as a nice, sweet, simple girl.

I can already hear all the talk that would go on if I caved.  “Did you hear?  She got fired after she yelled at a customer…Yeah, I heard it all.  It was awful!  I didn’t know she even knew half the words she was saying to this guy.”

I bag his items, knuckles white, my jaw clenched into a smile.  “I’m so sorry for all the trouble. Have a nice day.”  He grumbles back at me.

As he walks away, I rip my name badge off and storm outside for a break.  My face is red hot, but the fresh air helps calm me down.  I focus on my breathing.  Inhale, 2, 3, 4.  Exhale, 2, 3, 4.  I manage to escape this shit job for a few minutes, dreaming of working for no one but myself, of a career where I’m not powerless over the sleazy scumbags that come in to the store.

A man comes screaming out of the store, and I turn my head to see him.  “What the fuck do you mean I can’t see my kids! They’re my fucking kids!” 

It’s him.

He walks right past me as he continues to scream into his phone.  My break is already over, but I stay for an extra minute or two.  I can’t see his face anymore, but I can hear his voice trembling as he walks away.  “You can’t do this to me!  They’re my kids!”  He gets lost in the sea of cars, and I can’t see him anymore.

I take a few more deep breaths, and then head back inside.  Just as I step through the door, I hear an ear-piercing “God dammit!” come from the parking lot.

He had it coming.


Tenured Writer’s Block

I gave myself writer’s block a long time ago when I decided I would always take the safe route. Now I’m stuck in a world full of beautiful things and nothing to write about them.

But I am trying. I’m stepping out of my comfort zone. I’m talking to people, and I don’t mean talking to people about the weather and what they’re getting their degree in. I mean talking about things that affect me like my friends and how they treat me, and what it felt like the day my mother died.

I’m saying fuck it to things I’d otherwise tell myself, “No, don’t do that. It’ll all go wrong.” I gave someone my number. I got rejected. I gave someone else my number, and now I can’t shake them.

I’m saying fuck it to things I won’t be able to say fuck it to ten years from now. I called out of work at my useless part-time job to see the band I’ve been dying to see for three years now. I’m booking a flight to the Philippines to visit my best friend that I haven’t seen in two years.

And I’m writing.