End Game

I think I’m dying.

I’ve been deteriorating for a while now. It started slowly, symptoms easy to brush away due to stress or lack of sleep. Low appetite, restless nights, a nose bleed here or there. Hell, those could be a result of missing… someone.

My heart rate is sporadic, I stumble from a sudden bolt of fatigue, my visions blurs.

I passed out again last night. I called 911 when I came to, but then I remembered the price of an ambulance, the battery of tests they would run on me, and how hard it would be to escape from a hospital ward (nurses can tell when a patient is just making rounds or has the intent to leave). I told the operator I had just tripped and that I didn’t need any help.

My nose started to bleed. I stumbled to the bathroom and held toilet paper to my nose. And then I threw up.


I was afraid I’d die. I didn’t want to be alone if I died. I called Sam.

Christ, Fizz. It’s, like, two in the morning. This better be good.

I don’t want to die alone.

Hello?

I’ll be over in 15.

I think Sam was scared when he saw me. He kept trying to take me to the hospital. Fuck that. That’s where people go to fucking die or be mutilated. He somehow pried me away from the toilet and picked me up. I thought he was going to drag me to the ER. Panic. He laid me on my bed and tucked me in. He sidled up behind me and draped an arm around my chest.

I’m gonna call in sick for tomorrow.

Don’t do that.

Why?

Because if someone dies the world keeps goin’. That means you’ll be behind and a loser.

That’s stupid, Jessica.

Tell you what. I’ll try my hardest to die on a weekend so you can cry on your day off. Come Monday, you better be on top of your shit.

I’m wondering if I should write a will. I own nothing of value. Perhaps a letter to the people who mattered most to me will suffice.

To those who know me and read my blog, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk to me about this matter. I’ll get it checked out soon.

 

 

FUCK

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

OH HOLY HELL’S BELLS AND DOOKIE ON A STICK FUCK OH SHIT FUCK

This happened. There’s no response; Alex sent it two days ago. That makes it spookier.

I think I might get closure.

His birthday’s tomorrow. I’m terrified.

I’m a Bad Person

I believe in second chances. As a matter of fact, I believe in giving a shit ton of chances because none of those matter until it’s the last one. 

But I rarely give second chances because I like seeing someone who did me dirty suffer. I revel in it, like a pig in shit. 

I like it even more when someone who treated me like dirt asks for my help. It gives me an opportunity to say one of my favorite phrases:

Tough shit.

My Poor Mona Lisa

I have a problem. I have severe diarrhea of the mouth.

I was in line at Starbucks today so I could imbibe a fancy drink that allows me to function in the morning. I almost always order a latte. Just simple espresso (I think, I don’t fucking know; I don’t work at Starbucks) with some steamed milk. I tell the baristas my name is Car so some other Jessica (there are way too many in the world) doesn’t take my drink. That’s the worst. It’s like stepping in a puddle of water with socks on. It completely changes my mood.

Anyhow, I was standing in line and was enviously staring at a girl who had just received her drink from a butch lesbian. “Kate!”

I watched Kate walk over to where the fixings for coffee were… and defile her caffeinated drink. That chick must’ve poured about a fourth of a cup of sugar in her coffee. It was like watching someone take a righteous dump on the Mona Lisa.

OH MY GOD. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE SLIPPED A LOG OF POOP INTO YOUR COFFEE, YOU SAVAGE. POOPINESS ABOUNDS IN YOUR DRINK, HEATHEN. HOW DO YOU HAVE TEETH AFTER PUTTING ALL THAT CRACK IN THERE?

I had made quite a scene. The lesbian and her waif-y girlfriend were staring at me. The gay barista taking orders gaped at me with a slack jaw.

“Are you Jess? Here’s your latte.”

“Yes, that’s me. I haven’t had my coffee yet, and I’m not ready for normal social interactions.”

Surprisingly, everyone understood the feeling, including Kate, and just nodded solemnly.

Joke’s on them. I’m always an asshole like that.

How Do You Like Them Apples?

I went grocery shopping with my buddy Matt. He’s the best. He drives me around everywhere and makes sure I don’t go crazy when living alone. I’m a social person and need social contact.

I really like Fuji apples; they’re the first things I buy when I go to the super market. I’d have to say they’re my favorite fruit, but as luck would have it, an elderly man was restocking the apples, large cart blocking my fucking fruit of choice.

I decided to wait instead of roaming the produce sections; I was gonna have my pick of the litter once the old one had moved on. I got antsy and struck up a conversation:

Me: How are you?

Old Guy: I’m fine. Yourself?

Me: I’m grocery shopping, and it’s pretty much the highlight of my week.

Old Guy: Oh, that’s sad.

Whatever, man. It’s the little things. I have a bag of sweet apples and I’m happier than a pig in shit.


I will know I’ve found “the one” when he gives me a pack of hair ties, lip balm, and a bag of apples.

Like I said, it’s the little things.