SONDRA – ENTRY 4 (CAN I SMELL YOUR NET INCOME?)

*THE STORY LINE IS EVOLVING. WAIT GIRLS.*

“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…”

“Ex…”

“in Vietnam”

“Expel you.”

“You just fucking interrupted me.”

“No, on the contrary, Sondra”

“Why you coming home.”

“Sondra?”

“5 IN THE MORN’”

“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.”

“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?”

“I WILL KILL MYSELF?”

“What?”

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

“Sondra…”

“I KNOW WHO SHOT J.R”

“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.”

I WAS DETERMINED TO GET ON THE LIST. THE GUESTLIST. THE ABILITY TO DRAW IS A LUXURY I’LL NEVER EXPERIENCE BUT I’LL BE DEAD SOON. I’m undiscovered.

*lol*

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