Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,23

the MTV Movie awards with a mixture of titillation and boredom.

I know. We live pretty sad, pathetic lives.

In my defense, Zac Efron is at the awards show, so really, that should explain everything.

Jon Hamm struts on stage to present the next award.

Karsynn swoons. “He is simply bootylicious.”

“Quit talking like Beyonce. By the way bootylicious and booh-tay are not real words.”

Karsynn blanches. “For your info, Beyonce is now known as Sasha Fierce. She can sing, act and dance. That sista is a triple threat! And by the way,” she adds. “Booty is a real word, it’s in the dictionary.”

“Which one?” I challenge.

“The urban dictionary,” she states matter-of-factly.

“The urban dictionary doesn’t count,” I counter. “You can’t use it in Scrabble.”

“Hah! But I’m pretty sure that in Webster’s dictionary, booty means pirate treasure or prize. So it is a real word,” says Kars triumphantly. Then out of nowhere, she lets one rip.

It is mammoth!

Unlike her usual Mount Saint Helen eruptions, this one is a Krakatoan explosion. In fact, it is so massive that the aftershock tremors resonate through the lumpy sofa cushions.

“Your farts stink!” I choke through the fume of flatulence. “It smells like something crawled up your ass and died.”

She looks at me with an expression that says she’s inordinately pleased with herself. “What? Yours don’t stink?”

“Nope! Mine’s all air and packs no punch. But yours, yours are silent killers.” I shudder. “And I even felt it,” I add, cringing with disgust.

KAPOW! She swats me with a pillow. “Feel this!”

“OW!” I squawk, half laughing. “You really outdid yourself this time; that one tipped the Richter scale. It was a magnitude of 20.0.”

While I’m no stranger to breaking wind, Kars actually trumps me in this sport. We’re in such a comfort zone that whenever I let one loose, Kars will let one rip and announce smugly, “Mine was better.” I’m always happy to concede.

But tonight’s fart episode has got me thinking…maybe we’re getting a little too close for comfort. Maybe we need some space.

Maybe it’s time I move out.

Janis and Kars have been nothing but kind and generous, giving me shelter and feeding me for two months. They’ve offered me unlimited hospitality, making it very clear that I can stay for as long as I want. And the last thing I want to do is overstay my welcome.

“Kars,” I say in all-seriousness. “I think it’s time. Time for me to get a place of my own.”

Her face contorts. “You want to move out?”

I nibble my lips. “Umm-hmm.”

Karsynn looks crestfallen. But her state of distress is short lived. “I have an idea!” Her face lights up. “Why don’t we move out together and get a two bedroom apartment?”

I pause to allow myself to digest this. Now why didn’t I think of that? I’ll have my own place, I’ll still have my best friend and I’ll save on rent money.

“Sure, why not?” I hear myself saying.

“Yes! My mom will be so glad to be finally rid of me.”

I fervently shake my head. “Are you kidding me? Kars, your mom will miss you like crazy.”

Honestly, Janis and Kars are joined at the hip, and I envy the strong bond they share. When Kars breaks the news to Janis, I just know she’ll be sad to see her baby go.

Hmm, I wonder if my mom even misses me.

I doubt it. She’s far too busy with work to even notice I’m gone. My mom is an OBGYN. And if you scramble the letters and use a little imagination, OBGYN sort of resembles G’BYE.

As a kid, that’s exactly what I called her—the G’BYE doctor; and quite aptly so as she was always bidding me adieu, rushing off to help deliver some stranger’s baby.

After we lost my dad, things got worse. My mom completely checked out. I never saw her. I felt alone, I felt raw, I felt angry, and I would’ve surely gone off the deep end had it not been for my dad’s parting words. He said, “Maddy my love… always stay drunk on writing.”

Whenever I felt down, whenever I missed him, whenever I felt upset, whenever I felt alone, he told me to pick up a pen and just start writing. Anything. My feelings, my dreams, my hopes, my stories. And so I wrote and wrote to blot out the tears, to blot out the hurt, to blot out the pain, to blot out the world.

I wrote until my fingers blistered and bled. Eventually, they hardened and calloused. But it was cathartic, helping me heal in more