*Duck Dynasty has made me the woman I am today.*

“I don’t want to alarm you but…”

“I have E-coli poisoning.”

The doctor had not worn gloves. Hey hepatitis B, how you doing?

“Your wrist is broken…”

“Ah yes, so has the cracked skin surrounding your scars that just touched my raw body. Thanks.” Why do men never listen? Stop, you’re going too fast. I don’t like heroin so don’t give me any. I don’t want to meet your family if they’re not entirely Caucasian.

“Ms… sorry, what’s your surname? It’s not recorded on our system.”

“My surname?”

“Yes, please.”


“No, you’re surname.”

“It’s fucking Sondra.”

“Excuse me?”

“Imagine SEAL.”

“The singer?”

“No, the marine mammal.”

“Are you trying to be clever?” What a condescending gremlin. Was he attacking me?

“I feel very attacked right now.” Cornering a rat? Also, what was the ending to The Mousetrap? No one has told me. I need to know. Anyway, the doctor examined me. Identified my double-jointed hips and persisted in telling me how thin I was. Sorry Meghan Trainor. I originally forgot to tell him about my constant projectile vomiting so when he had finished my breast augmentation, I nudged him with the most subtle smile. His reaction was priceless.

“Do you have a medical card?”


“Do you have a medical card?”

“ROFL.” Was I giving him mixed signals? My back hurt but did his pride? His career was over.

“Can you pay?”

“No. I won’t contribute to an industry that objectifies the vulnerable. Thank you for your time.” I kept my composure and for that, no one can oppose me. He kept his pants on and for that, I informed a trainee nurse that he had given me an examination of the vaginal kind without a glove. It’s half true. He didn’t use a glove. He didn’t touch my vagina. I hope he wasn’t fired. My malicious lie had hidden the truth. Why was I projectile vomiting? Menopause? Cancer? Chris Pratt? For all I knew, my body was inhabited by a parasite who was willing to suck the life out of my 10 inch waist. Hehe, if only. Actually… I need a moment. A baby was born in Bethlehem? Sweet Child of mine? I’m keeping my baby? Juno? ZOEY 10 FUCKING 1?


My mother had been waiting outside the hospital for approximately 6 hours and was out of cigarettes. She was also out of time. Ava’s mother didn’t have a chance. She sat by the window opposite the nearest ambulance. She had made an acquaintance out of a woman with alopecia. I whipped my hair back and forth until it was gone. Enya was and will forever be underrated.

“Mummy!” Her head swung and was well hung.

“Yes?” FLACID.

“We need to talk.”

“Go ahead.”

“No. I mean alone…”

“Don’t mind Hannah.”

“Hi, I’m Hannah…”

“Hi, fuck off and buy a front lace wig. Thank you so much.” She was gracious and male. I had misevaluated the whole situation. His name was Henry. Fucking hypotheticals. I’m Roseanne via Roseanne finale shocker. Writing is my passion. I hope whoever is reading this, understands that I can’t communicate verbally without vomit and anxiety.. oh yes, my pregnancy.

“Bye Henry.”

“Bye Sondra. Give the kids my best.”

“I will of course. God bless.” My mother was unimpressed. She glared at me with one eye. The other was cross-eyed. Like severely. I’ll show a picture later.

“That was rude.”

“You know I have behavioural problems.”


“Just hear me out…”

“What’s wrong?”

“It involves my stomach.”



“What did the doctor say?”

“I’m pregnant.” I ripped the bandage off and it bled, meaning my mother had gone into cardiac arrest.

“You’re pregnant?”


“Why are you questioning a fact that you just made clear.”

“I’m questioning your ability to support me.”

“I’ve always supported me.”

“Not during my career in the circus.”

“You were the elephant girl.”

“It was all prosthetics. You’d know all about them.” She didn’t.

“How far along?”

“14 weeks.” I lied. I had no idea what to say. My mouth was a desert with no Arabian influence.

“3 months.”


“Who’s the father?” NO. It was Immaculate Conception.

“It was Immaculate Conception.”

“Don’t play, Sondra.”

“Too late for that.”

“I swear Sondra…”

“But you don’t fucking care…” and with that I strutted, mother with child, beyond the confines of the binary, the church, to the one place where I felt confident. You know it.

I knocked on a door. Who’s door? Don’t make me laugh.

The door opened.

“It’s me.” I kept eye contact. They didn’t.

“Sondra, what are you doing here?”

“I have news for you.”

“Come in…”

“Inside me.”


“You said come…”


“I said inside me. It was a joke.”


“But it’s not a joke… as I’m with child.”


“Yes. It’s yours.”

“Sondra, stop wasting my time.”

“I need to talk to you about it.”


“Because you’re the father.”

Jane Lynch had had enough. She closed the door.

“I’ll let you… style my hair.” The re-opened the door. Her interest was aroused. Her vagina had no reaction. I’d lost my spark.

“Come inside…”

“Inside me.”

“Get inside.”

The moral of the story is that whenever deals you a card that you can’t see through… Whenever life shits on your neck and offers you no after-sun, there is always a silver lining. I think it’s so important to have a companion who you can confide in. Mine? JANE LYNCH. We met in 2010 after a T.A.T.U concert and just clicked. I’m so honoured to be her little bitch and vice versa. She’s my surrogate mother. She’s my mother. Throughout this pregnancy I’ll need a mother, so for now, Jane will act as such.

I am due to start school in a week and still haven’t reinvented myself. I guess for now, Jane Lynch’s mistress would suffice.

*Bi girls.*



*Why are the yellow clouds screaming allowed?*

American Apparel’s clothing is so expensive, that’s why I steal. Oh I forgot to mention that the Tech had accepted me. As a lone wolf amongst a sea of sultry cockerels, I had begun to consider the unthinkable. A fucking choker. What was I? A sodomized Olsen twin? Get bent.

“Get up cunt.” Peter spat in my wardrobe.

“Sorry.” I was genuine.

“Give my thy hand.” He stuttered on the ‘thy’. Don’t use words you don’t understand. Ask John Green. I dare you.

“Okay. You’re usually very disrespectful and threatening but I want your love.” I gave him everything. He broke my wrist.

“That hurts. Can you kiss it better?” I had a plan. Once his tender lips touched my wrist, I would latch onto his ear with my teeth and nibble on his soft lobe.

My plan failed miserably. Let’s just say… I failed. Peter also pressurised me into collecting debt from his friend, Carol. Carol didn’t like have the money. Carol was left for dead. Oh, how I joke! Carol just lost a tooth. With that tooth, I gave my mother an ultimatum. Stop treating her body like an ashtray with cerebral palsy or her precious cat would go splat. Splat like spaghetti. Splat like Laura Grindelbarrogschnider’s fallopian tube.

Needless to say, she grounded me. As part of my punishment, I had to chaperone my younger siblings to Cousin Meredith’s birthday party. God, I love my family so much. Meredith was a great friend, an even better lover. Imagine Hilda Swinton’s diabetic daughter who, for some disgusting reason, was a burn victim. I reckon most lawyers have had at least one heart attack. Bury me alive. Erin Brockovich really surprised me. I thought, who is she? Where did you find her? Is there a reason for the eponymous title? MacBeth? MACBITCH. Meredith could be a bitch. I once heard that after her mother’s hysterectomy, she replaced her toothbrush with a pregnancy test. The cheek.


“Hey Meredith. I love your home.”

“It’s not mine Sondra.”

“It’s all yours.”

“I owe nothing.”

“You owe the world nothing.” I just wanted her to have confidence.

“You know…/”

“I know.” She had stolen my purse. I had forgiven her.

“I had just started my point…”

“Point. Joint. What’s the difference?”

“Sondra. This is important.” Her hips quivered. Or they were very brittle.

“I’m listening.” I wasn’t.

“I have a girlfriend.”

“Lesbian.” I nodded knowlingly.


“It’s obvious.”

“How did you know?”

“Call it… woman’s intuition?”

“Ahh… ok…”

“Or your feelings for me.”


“Rubbing those thighs…”


“Like knee-highs.”


“Cousin, I won’t. Don’t waste my time.” My time had already been wasted.

“I’m leaving…” OH MY GOD. It’s ED. Not my boyfriend/brother. My friend who’s gay. I only had one. Two would make us a minority or community?







“FEED THE CHILDREN.” Meredith had lost interest and some weight. Good job cousin.

“Where have you been?” Ed seemed to care.

“At home.” Honesty.

“I knew it.” Honesty?

“Then why did you ask?” Meredith was too nosey.

“Why didn’t you call?”

“Child allowance.”

“I relate to you.”



“Guess who’s moving to the Tech?”

Ed shat. “Lady Gaga?”


“Raven Symone?”


“Jinxx Monsoon?”

“She graduated.”

“Hilary Clinton-Duff?”

“As if.”

“Christian Bale.”

“You fucked him.”

“I didn’t.” He blushed a similar shade to his prevalent asshole.

“You’re gay. Christian Bale is a man.”

“You’re too right.”

“More like… Too tight.”

“You shit-waggon!”

“You know it!”

“Boy George.”


“I thought we were still guessing?”

“No. It’s me!

“YASSSSSSSSS.” He was indifferent.

After the formalities, my stomach rumbled. I had never felt such hungry. The pit of my gut resembled an elegantly placed burger with terrible stamina . Meredith’s party was a bore but who was I? The barbeque had no vegan substitutes so I felt marginalised. To add insult to injury, Ava’s mother had died and she needed support. I is not elastic, spastic. You think I strap you in while you spread your wings. No Mandy Moore, the only thing I let spread is awareness.

“Fine, I’ll eat a hotdog.” If it long and sturdy, guess who’s entering my clergy. Clergy equates to pussy ya Jesuit bastard.

“Would you like all of the toppings?” My Uncle Francis was such a suburban dad.

“I suppose you’ll be the cherry on top?” My flirting skills left a lot to be desired. Why wasn’t I desirable?!?! The hotdog tasted of a council estate and my Uncle wasn’t much better. Hehe. Wendy Williams’ show has to be cancelled. My inheritance was cancelled after 9/11. Why? Political correctness.

“Aren’t you a vegan?” Non-gay Ed had showed his face. I pursed my moist lips. I drippled ketchup straight down my blouse. Yes, I was wearing a blouse. Easy access? No.

“Do you want a napkin?”


“I’ll get it for you?”

“No, wait…” He looked at me. I looked at the grass.

“Nice grass?”

“Nice ass.” I pinched his dimples.



“No, seriously.” He was uncomfortable. I was comfortable and that’s all that matters.

“Don’t make me apologize.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I won’t.”

“Fuck the police.”


“You calling them?”


“You trying with me?”

“Oh my god…”

“I’m a black belt in bitch and not afraid of intimacy…” My stomach rumbled. It was blood. An ocean of innocent men spread through my intestines. Shit.

“I’m not okay.” Said the most embarrassed girl since Kelly Rowland’s solo career.

“What’ wrong…”

“BLEHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGTFOANOMOSITYBSHJSGSBLEEHEEHHHHHH!” Projectile vomit was the paint, society was my canvas. Post-modernism. My wrist is still broken. I’m undiscovered.




“And that’s why I kicked Erin Schechnor in the throat.” Miss Aubergine (the principal) wasn’t convinced my aggressive outburst was due to ovarian cists. Her misshaped breasts were perkier than my disposition. I’d projected my most inner-turmoil onto Erin and ruptured her vocal chords in the process. Cry me a river. Oh wait.

“Sondra, your aggressive and threatening behaviour is no longer able to be tolerated by our faculty. Miss Schechnor has every right to inform the authorities about your consistent violence. We, as a faculty have no other choice but to…”

“Award my bravery…”


“in Vietnam”

“Expel you.”

“You just fucking interrupted me.”

“No, on the contrary, Sondra”

“Why you coming home.”



“Are you listening to me?”

“Somethings going on…”

“I’ll need to ring…”

“Can I smell your dick?” Her dick smelled of controversy.

So, I was expelled. Apparently “inappropriate groping of a principal’s faux, imaginary penis is WRONG.”

“You need professional help.” Mummy wasn’t wearing any jewellery. She had sold it for Jesus. OH, HYPOCRASY.

“You need to control your dirty, little whore antics. While my beautiful boys lay upstairs alone, in their beds reading male orientated coming-of-age novels in ignorant, sexy bliss, you have to infect the house with tampons and oestrogen.” Peter had never looked so butt-hurt. I reckon Natalie Imbruglia had a natural delivery but that’s just an educated guess.

With all my dreams shattered, quite like Erin Schechnor’s throat, I knew I had to re-invent myself. Sassy Sondra wasn’t going to cut it. Was I a gender confused lacrosse player? Did I wear only caftan? These questions needed to be asked again. Was I a gender amused lacrosse player? Did I not wear caftan? OH, my phone’s vibrating. Let’s hope no one has terminal cancer.

“My mom’s cancer is terminal.” Fucking Ava.

“Shit buzz.”

“Yeah, lioke.”

“I was literally just expelled. My life is literally the worst.”

“I know. Sucks to be you, lioke.”


“Yeah.” I hung up.

I hate Ava. Moving on. I needed better friends. Where does one meet friends? The library? Hospital? Canada? Ahh yes, the morgue. To re-brand myself, I needed to re-brand who I associated with. You’re only as good as your privilege. I’m done with Notre Dame… I’m done with insecure girls.

“I’m moving schools.” I was infinite.

“You were expelled. Obviously you’re moving.” Ugh, mum so finite.

“I want to move to Ed’s school.” It was so liberal.

“The tech?”



“YOU HAVE NEVER CARED.” My hips became angry. Who was going to eat the toast? NOT TARA REID.



“It wasn’t my son.” Peter had contorted his pelvis straight toward the sunset. We would have sex. I think…

“Sondra, will you be intimate with me?”

“Lol no, Surry.” Why would I have intercourse with a man so extraordinarily Polish.

“I start tomorrow.”

“No, you have to be registered.”

“Like Peter?” He was vain.

“That’s a different list.”