Laura Grindalbarrogschnider is pregnant. Who the daddy? Who cares? Laura Grindalbarrogschnider is no longer eligible for class valedictorian. Pregnancy = redundancy. Jamie Lynn Spears’ fucking gremlin had ruined Zoey101, and in doing so, ripped her gooch but that’s neither here nor there. Get it? Her minge and asshole are conjoined motherfucking twins called fuck me and consequences. Now that Laura Grindalbarrogschnider was out of the running, I was the frontrunner. Kevin Spacey’s modelling school in Iowa would require credentials such as these for their elite institute.
My suspension was almost over and the thought had given me joy beyond my mother’s restricted imagination. With the exceptions of Ed’s penis and Peter’s blatant how to catch a predator persona, home was uninspiring. Social media was my only creative outlet and I took great pleasure in trolling Tumblr activists.
“I hate immigrants. #getout #buttercrise #surry” got a couple of retweets. One of those retweets came from @viviombre aka Vivienne Ombre, Erin Schechnor’s right hand omelette. Hmm, Nancy Drew, let’s get cracking! Emma Robert’s potential is unlimited. Far from the introvert, Vivienne’s twitter contained what some would call, I thrive on male attention as my mother has a terminal illness content but breaking the mould from gym selfies, make-up giveaways and ambiguously placed mugs was a retweet of an Erin Schechnor original.
“Looks like it’s a CUNT CLIMATE kids. Forecasts predict a high chance of bitter and bitch. Brace yourselves girls of Notre Dame #vegan #gohome #sandra #lauragindalbarrogschniderispregnant?!?!” That wench. Guess who’s losing their legs tomorrow.
“Have you seen my toothbrush?” Ed was naked. I was puzzled. My knickers became snickers. Irritable Bowel Syndrome was not my friend.
“No. Have you tried the bathroom?” I was puzzled, again.
“Obviously.” He didn’t share my enthusiasm. He has shared my bed and maybe, genetics.
“Have you asked… daddy?” He had had a history of theft. Robbing boys regularly. Rumour has it, he once robbed a boy of his family jewels. I say rumour, but c’est la vie.
“No, Dad’s gone to work. I rang him.” Peter’s a nail technician.
“You can use mine.” I bit my lip.
“That’s disgusting.” He pointed to my lip. Blood dripping but who slipping? ME. INTO A REALM OF SELF DEPRECIATION. YELP.
“I’ll go without.”
“I’M SOBER!” Ed decided to act on my erratic behaviour. He opened my personal drawer and pulled out the second compartment. His smouldering fingernails caressed the outer lining of my Calvin Klein socks. STOP. My asthma was coming back. I gasped for breath. I was hyperventilating. I was shaking like a leaf. A leaf with motor-neurons disease. Oh my grill, he was smelling my designer socks. Will he smell my bodily hair? Please? My lifeless body was slumped in the foetal position as the remainder of my blood inhabited my face. Scarlet was not the word. My discomfort was established but that wasn’t going to stop. I was ready. My chance WAS NOW. I just needed the re-assurance, the confidence, the…
“Blehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhgrekkkkblehhhhhhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrgrkkkkkkkkkkkkbleh.” At that exact second, he had pulled out of me. LOL. He pulled out a shoulder of vodka. I’m an alcoholic. An alcoholic who had projectile vomited on her late father’s quilt. That quilt? How do I even begin to describe it?
“Bye.” I smiled. I died inside. Domestic abuse. A kiss with a fist is better than none. I’m undiscovered.
*NEXT PART WILL BE OUT NEXT THURSDAY. DON’T CRY*