*Hi girls*

“I didn’t squirt. I promise.” Ed wasn’t impressed, contrary to his saturated boxers. Our dad would be home any minute and he had planned not to wash his sheets. Cleanliness prevents incest. It’s proven.

“I don’t even have fabric conditioner!” He appeared to be fuckboi.

“This is your fault, therefore you clean it!”

“My fault? Your hand literally spasmed upon touching my inner clitoris. I had no control over the matter.” I felt a leak. I had pissed the bed. That’s typical me. Pissing on property. I need more self- control and definitely better muscle in my inner pussy hussy. Apart from my Uncle, no one else had left me in such a vulnerable position. Bareback in my bathtub. R.I.P CHILDHOOD.

“Just go. You’re making it worse.”

A total of five people had died on the sidewalk opposite my house. Two from a hit & run. Their names are… irrelevant. Another man had tripped over a misplaced lunchbox and broken his neck. Hillary Swank! My dad suffered a major stroke and died later from further complications. He was 37. He was racist. He was no ordinary girl. I valued every bit of that man, from his ear lobes to his belly button. He’d often let me be the horse. Memories.

“Fine. I hope you drown in your shame and awkwardly placed brow-line.” I’d achieved third-wave feminism and felt terrible. Why didn’t he want me? Why doesn’t he need me? I’m capable of foreplay and conversation. Hmm, he must be asexual.

Having a Stepfather isn’t as bad as you think. Yes, he clearly loves me less and is very much attracted to me. No, he hasn’t saved for my college tuition nor has he put me on the pill, but he’s a nice guy. Peter’s collection of floral T-shirts had recently gone out of control. Every room in the house was full with tributes to Bob Marley, Ezra Pound, flamingos, male escorts and palm trees. To make more room for his fetish, I moved to the couch. Well, I was forced but I understand why.

“Young boys need their privacy, and girls have no rights hee hee.” Oh god, so problematic. I hope he never hits me again. I hope I figure skate again.

Oh, I just got a text. I wonder from who? Or whom? My womb is better than yours because it works. Oh, it’s Ava. My best friend. Her look on fleek as she dresses hella chic. I’m Coco Rocha. You’re grotesque. Oh great, she’s ringing me.

“Hey girl. My mum has cancer!”

“Oh no.”

“Yeah. Have you heard about Laura Grindalbarrogschnider?”

“What about Laura Grindalbarrogschnider?”

“Well, Laura Grindalbarrogschnider…”

“Actually, who’s Laura Grindalbarrogschnider?

“Heiress to Grindalbarrogschnider hotels.”

“Oh yes.”

“Anyway, she’s…”

“How do you spell Gindalbarrogschnider?”


“Are you sure?”


“But you’re dyslexic.”

“You’re illegitimate.”


“Is she Jewish?”


“Are you Jewish?”


“Cool. Bai.”


What a catch. Oh wait, I purposely forgot to listen to Ava about Laura Grindalbarrogschnider. I empathise with Barbara Streisand. I’m undiscovered.



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