a doorway leading to seven hundred people masturbating each other with panties dangling from your shoe. Shit, girl. He’s gonna be intrigued.”
“She’s right,” Annie concurred. “You are most definitely on his mind.”
Artemis launched into her theory that the crazier and weirder and more eccentric a woman seems, the more a man worth his salt will want to get with her. She was talking so fast her words seemed to bump into one another, as if each was a reckless driver who couldn’t obey the speed limit.
“Who said Texas is worth his salt? You are the one who told me all drummers are busters,” I added. Then Annie began a rousing condemnation of guys in Austin who think just having a pulse and a dick that gets hard should suffice and that no further effort or courtship is required on their part.
Artemis countered in an increasingly slurred voice that a pulse and a hard dick were perfect offerings, really, because who wanted to deal with a man who would hang around? It was a fantastic night overall, and for a bit I even forgot my sorrows and humiliation.
But now today I am hungover and cannot call in sick again for fear I will lose my job. And I hope I don’t have to face Patrick. I don’t want to think about him rising to the occasion of a skillful coupling with that sexy burlesque girl. Oh why, oh why did I let myself think getting my honey where I make my money was a good idea!???
Melancholily,
Roxy
September 12, 2012
Dear Everett,
Well, as I anticipated, yesterday work was a living hell. Nelson is still gone to PharmaTrial so we were short-staffed. (I console myself with the thought that at least I have not hit the rock bottom of selling my body to Big Pharma.) Customers stood three deep at the deli counter all afternoon and were thus grumpy once they were finally able to place their orders. I kept my eyes peeled for any sign of Patrick. For hours there was nothing, but then at about 4 p.m. I spotted him standing in line at a register with the raven-haired burlesque grrrl who must have come in to eat a late lunch with him on his break. When he and I were doing our “dance” of flirtation, he never once asked me to have lunch!!!!!! A lunch date seems so casual yet intimate that it must be a sign of a seriously burgeoning relationship. I feel humiliated and alone and somehow convinced the burlesque goddess has already taught Patrick how to lavish (non-weird, non-masturbation cult) attention on her lady bits.
On my break I walked over to Waterloo Records just to get out of Whole Foods. I was again greeted by the giant FAIL BETTER! poster in the Waterloo window announcing their upcoming in-store performance. Texas looked down on me like the billboard eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleberg in “The Great Gatsby.” Seeing his cute face and ripped physique in that tight black T-shirt brought back the horrible memories of what I now think of as “the Great OM Debacle of 2012.” Though in real life, run-ins with Texas have brought only profound embarrassment, strangely his band’s music still gives me comfort. I even ducked into the listening booth for ten minutes of the soothing sounds of his drumming.
Though I was momentarily calmed by the sounds of FAIL BETTER!, I now feel I am destined to be alone with the furballs, and that any attempts I make to form a romantic bond with another human will be met with failure and disappointment.
Sadly,
Roxy
P.S. Perhaps to make myself feel even worse, I texted Artemis to ask if she would please participate in the Lululemon protest. NO WAY! she texted back. I’D BE FIRED SO FAST. I LOVE YOU, BUT I LOVE HAVING A JOB AS A GUERRILLA BODY IMAGE COUNSELOR MORE.
I HATE TO ADMIT IT, BUT THAT MAKES ME FEEL BETRAYED, I countered.
I HATE TO ADMIT IT, BUT YOUR SELFISHNESS KNOWS NO BOUNDS, she said.
I’m not sure if either or both or neither of us was kidding.
P.P.S. The one bright spot of my day—before work I saw a cleaning crew hauling dirty couches and other crap out of Tweakerville. It looks like I’ve successfully ousted Captain Tweaker and his brethren from my life forever!
September 15, 2012
Dear Everett,
I will admit that when you told me last night that you’re “seeing” a woman who lives at the OM house, it felt like a punch to the gut. (And