3 Days Later
Exhausted, I settle into my bed, propping myself up with pillows and surrounding myself with snacks. I had promised myself that I'll focus on resting tonight, but instead I'm restless and can't sleep. Against my better judgement, I shovel another scoop of ice cream in my mouth and open Facebook to scratch the restless itch. Hopefully this time, the ice cream doesn't make me nauseous. Lately, I can't seem to eat it without feeling sick.
With Jose fast asleep, I shift my attention towards marketing, like I have for years nearly every evening. Fueled by anxiety and some flavor of spite, I work well into the evening as fast my fingers would allow me to. These are the long nights, that I'll never forget. The darkness of the room. The flickering candlelight on my nightstand. The quiet snores coming from Jose's side of the bed. The clacking of the keys against my fingernails. The soft blue tinted glow from my laptop, stretching across the bed. It was there, from my bed that I had built my little business, brick by brick, with the help of a dash of stubbornness and endless delusion and endless amounts of PMDD rage, fueling me towards my next goal.
A notification pops up, stealing my attention.
Lately, they've been coming in by the dozens, making it hard to keep up. I scan my messages, looking for anything that is seemingly urgent. Nothing in particular stands out to me, except one and I wouldn't exactly call it urgent. In spite of this, it's the one that catches my attention the most.
“What are you looking for in a man?” the message reads.
Oh vomit.
Clicking my fingers across the keys, I'm happy to reply. “3 nipples and money, but only if the 3rd nipple is functional for morning coffee. No nipple cream, no deal. I mean, that would just be weird as fuck ya know?”
Thinking surely he'd get the message, I hit send. To my dismay, he responds almost immediately.
“Can I see a picture of you?”
Is this dude serious?
“Sure,” I agree. “Just one sec.” This might do the trick.
Browsing through my phone, I look for a picture of my cat's butthole. Finding my favorite one, I hit send.
“Are you a big fan of Ellen?” he asks.
“I'm a big fan of the cat buttholes. I guess Ellen is pretty nice though.” I say agreeably.
“Do you know why I messaged you?” he inquires.
Because you're a scamming scammer that scams.
I don't say this. Instead I say, “Yeah, cat buttholes.” This poor asshole is going to wish he never messaged me.
“No,” he says. “I want something from you.”
Too fucking bad.
“I want to call you every day.”
Is this mother fucker high?
“That'll be $313 a day.”
“Why fee?” he asks, bewildered.
“Because time is money and I have to feed the chickens. Why else?”
He doesn't respond to this. For whatever reason, I'm disappointed. Probably because I need somebody to fight with. The closer I get to my period, the more aggressive I get. Fighting scratches some sort of weird hormonal itch. You need to go the fuck to sleep.
Heading my advice, I close out of the conversation. As I do a notification for my website pops up, and it catches my attention.
Order number 100,000?
I lean back against my pillow, letting this soak in.
100,000 orders? When did that happen?
Somewhere between marketing, cat buttholes, and PMDD rage, I drift off to sleep.
