to overwork. AJ twists her mouth, but before I let her speak and give me the speech that she’s invincible, I interrupt her. “You have that blood sugar shit to figure out, AJ, and a kid to care for. My princess needs her mama, so you need to step back and take it easy.”
AJ has type 1 diabetes. She knew how to control her sugar levels until she got pregnant. Now it’s all about recovering while nurturing her baby daughter.
“You need a real life, Matthew. Your own little family,” she says, giving me a hug, and not discussing my little hiccup with Tristan. Thank God she listened this time, as I would hate to argue about my sex life with her. “Get rid of that emotional constipation, and stop trying to dip that spoon into so many ice creams. Focus on one thing. But thank you for taking care of me. I love you so much for that.”
“Ice creams? I don’t eat ice cream. That’s your sister-in-law, the one who would shoot her own husband for a pint of rocky road.”
“No, but she’ll do it for an entire truck of Ben and Jerry’s.” She laughs, pulls me out of the room and takes me to the kitchen. It's good to have someone to pamper me sometimes. No one is better than my sister for that shit. “Meanwhile we can talk about organizing your life. Help you settle down.”
Oh please, no. I'm going to become her new fucking project. Damn it.
I' m usually a morning person, but shit, today I can't. This is already a shitty Monday. I immediately pull my bracelet to shut myself up. Bad energies are what make my day shitty. That and the big headache I have today. Going to bed at three in the morning wasn’t a great idea. Stupid Matthew Decker and his oh-so-awesome conversational skills. I let the shit go and take a breather.
Good Karma, positive thoughts. I clear my head from negative shit and decide to continue with my routine. I start by counting yesterday’s tips. My lips pull when I find four hundred-dollar bills, and a napkin.
Butterfly, email me. I’d rather have you working for me than at the bar. M.
At the bottom is his email address.
I place one of the hundred-dollar bills inside the savings jar, then reach into my purse and place the rest in my wallet. Seventy dollars, plus his four hundred in tips isn’t bad for a slow night. Maybe I’ll email Matt later and find out what he’s offering. I’m attracted to him; I’m a woman that hasn’t had sex in eons, but for me sex is a three-letter word that implies much more than the act of copulating. I rather not risk a five-minute orgasm for . . . Yeah, I shouldn’t go there.
For now it doesn't matter, I have shit to do. Like heading to the bank to deposit my check and tips. Then head down to St. Peter & Paul, a small catholic church where I volunteer my time to counsel foster children. It’s a program run by the deacon’s wife where we help the children adapt into their new or temporary homes. The hours help me with the counseling license I’m working toward. Only seventy-five more hours of supervised experience, my test, and I can get the state certification. Then I can search for a real job as a therapist.
Of course, I have to pray someone will take me . . . with my background, which sucks. I pull my coat from the rack, fix my curly hair into a quick messy bun, and leave my apartment. As I’m locking the door, I read the reminder I posted last night.
Thea:
Don’t forget to mail the orders.
You have to mail them today.
T.
P.S. Make it a great day!
Shit. Well, at least I have time to go to the post office while running the other errands. I storm inside, pick it up from the dining table, and continue with what I was doing. One day at a time. That’s the only way to survive, the only way to continue. My luck is going to change. I’ll get a break. A big break that will guarantee some happiness and less loneliness. But for now I’m happy I found a way to escape.
I hug the box. It has dreams, hopes, and love. A future that someday will
AJ has type 1 diabetes. She knew how to control her sugar levels until she got pregnant. Now it’s all about recovering while nurturing her baby daughter.
“You need a real life, Matthew. Your own little family,” she says, giving me a hug, and not discussing my little hiccup with Tristan. Thank God she listened this time, as I would hate to argue about my sex life with her. “Get rid of that emotional constipation, and stop trying to dip that spoon into so many ice creams. Focus on one thing. But thank you for taking care of me. I love you so much for that.”
“Ice creams? I don’t eat ice cream. That’s your sister-in-law, the one who would shoot her own husband for a pint of rocky road.”
“No, but she’ll do it for an entire truck of Ben and Jerry’s.” She laughs, pulls me out of the room and takes me to the kitchen. It's good to have someone to pamper me sometimes. No one is better than my sister for that shit. “Meanwhile we can talk about organizing your life. Help you settle down.”
Oh please, no. I'm going to become her new fucking project. Damn it.
I' m usually a morning person, but shit, today I can't. This is already a shitty Monday. I immediately pull my bracelet to shut myself up. Bad energies are what make my day shitty. That and the big headache I have today. Going to bed at three in the morning wasn’t a great idea. Stupid Matthew Decker and his oh-so-awesome conversational skills. I let the shit go and take a breather.
Good Karma, positive thoughts. I clear my head from negative shit and decide to continue with my routine. I start by counting yesterday’s tips. My lips pull when I find four hundred-dollar bills, and a napkin.
Butterfly, email me. I’d rather have you working for me than at the bar. M.
At the bottom is his email address.
I place one of the hundred-dollar bills inside the savings jar, then reach into my purse and place the rest in my wallet. Seventy dollars, plus his four hundred in tips isn’t bad for a slow night. Maybe I’ll email Matt later and find out what he’s offering. I’m attracted to him; I’m a woman that hasn’t had sex in eons, but for me sex is a three-letter word that implies much more than the act of copulating. I rather not risk a five-minute orgasm for . . . Yeah, I shouldn’t go there.
For now it doesn't matter, I have shit to do. Like heading to the bank to deposit my check and tips. Then head down to St. Peter & Paul, a small catholic church where I volunteer my time to counsel foster children. It’s a program run by the deacon’s wife where we help the children adapt into their new or temporary homes. The hours help me with the counseling license I’m working toward. Only seventy-five more hours of supervised experience, my test, and I can get the state certification. Then I can search for a real job as a therapist.
Of course, I have to pray someone will take me . . . with my background, which sucks. I pull my coat from the rack, fix my curly hair into a quick messy bun, and leave my apartment. As I’m locking the door, I read the reminder I posted last night.
Thea:
Don’t forget to mail the orders.
You have to mail them today.
T.
P.S. Make it a great day!
Shit. Well, at least I have time to go to the post office while running the other errands. I storm inside, pick it up from the dining table, and continue with what I was doing. One day at a time. That’s the only way to survive, the only way to continue. My luck is going to change. I’ll get a break. A big break that will guarantee some happiness and less loneliness. But for now I’m happy I found a way to escape.
I hug the box. It has dreams, hopes, and love. A future that someday will
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