tears running out of my eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this close to death before in my life.
Please JESUS, tell me my dad didn’t just see me with my hand between my legs. PLEASE. I need him not to have seen my vagina just now like I’ve never needed anything else in my life.
Immediately, a text comes in, and I scream in horror and throw my phone across the bed in a panic. Only when my heart calms down to a pace that doesn’t seem like it’s going to land me in the morgue do I pick it up again.
I hug it to my chest until it seems like it doesn’t have fangs and then pull it away to look at the screen. My dad’s name beckons from the text bubble, and I slam it down on the bed again.
Will I survive the contents of this text? I’m not sure. But I’m doubly sure I’ll never survive deleting it without reading it either. I have to know. I just have to know what it says.
With a grimace, I pick it up from the hollow of my comforter and bring it up to my face. I click the button to open it and hold my breath.
Dad: I didn’t see anything. I just want you to know that.
I start to take a deep breath when another text message pops into the thread immediately underneath that one without warning.
Dad: But if I had, I’d just remind you that I changed your pull-up all the way until you were nearly five, so this is really no big deal. You refusing to piss on the toilet before you were practically grown was a big deal, but this isn’t. If, you know, there was a this. But I didn’t see anything. Swear.
Goddammit!
Dad: Also, you shouldn’t feel too bad about the potty-training thing either. Doc said it was a trauma thing from losing your mom. Anyhoo, love you and your rights to a healthy relationship with your body.
Mortification isn’t a big enough word. I’m going to have to move. Somewhere really remote. But, like, not so remote that Amazon won’t deliver. I wonder if Jeff Bezos knows the zip code to hell.
Someone put me out of my fucking misery.
At least I won’t have to move if hell’s where I decide to go…because I’m already there.
Oh, and don’t forget! Tomorrow, you get to finish writing that article that’s literally due, like, now, and you get to see Jake again! Should be a fantastic day!
Why is my life like this? Why am I like this?
Seriously. Why?
Holley
When I park the car outside the coffee shop where I’m supposed to meet Jake, I look up and into the rearview mirror one last time and gasp.
Holy hell, I look like a crypt keeper from the afterlife!
I rub furiously at the smudged makeup under my eyes and lick my finger when it won’t come off without some moisture.
I’d normally never leave the house in this much of a state, but to say everything has been a blur since last night would be an understatement.
I accidentally FaceTimed with my father while I was masturbating!
Okay, real talk? I really don’t think he saw my vagina or anything, but he definitely had an idea of what was going on, and falling asleep after that proved next to impossible.
Instead, I fell down one hell of a rabbit hole via an internet thread on Reddit about the trauma of walking in on your parents doing it. The conclusion of my research is pretty clear—I need to find a way to convince my dad to go into counseling as soon as possible.
Logistically, though, that meant I didn’t fall asleep until the sun had already risen.
Needless to say, when my alarm went off, it was not a pleasant experience. I didn’t jump out of bed and sing with the birds like Mary Poppins or type up a fifty-page dissertation like I’ve heard is possible at that time of the morning. Or, you know, finish my article that I definitely should have finished before coming here.
Nope. Instead, I whined. I cried. I even thrashed a little like I was having a tantrum. Frankly, that was pretty liberating, seeing as I didn’t have anyone around to tell me to grow up or act my age.
My neighbor Gary most likely heard all of my toddler-like-crazy through the open window of my bedroom, but I’ve heard that guy have sex with a woman who begged him to lick her asshole, so I’m