SONDRA – ENTRY 7 (GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, I’M WATCHING GOLF – JANE LYNCH)

*LEZ BE CLEAR* I’m undiscovered

*AMERICA’S NEXT TOP BOTTOM* NOT FREYA TAYLOR. Tnx.

My wardrobe has never been a friend. Fast-forward to 2020, Kanye’s president, poncho’s are officially out and Hugh Grant has morphed into an underage antelope. Why? Obedience. Notre Dame had always conformed to a strict dress code, which made my personality cease to exist. Miley, what’s good? Definitely not your appropriation. But now, shear was clear and nobody could cover my clover. Crazy as it seems, the thought of a new school made my body semi-permeable to prejudice. I heard a cough. Another cough. Cough. Wow. My anticipation for today was… *cough*
“Why are you condescending me?” I turned around toward the rude little dipshit. Twas Edward who was greeted by my Baltic gaze.
“Hey. You ready to go?” He looked innocent. Not for long. Colour match my asshole.
“Thanks but I don’t think I’ll need a lift.”
“You sure?”
“Did I fucking stutter?”
“No. I suppose you didn’t.”
“I suppose you better leave before your spleen becomes unclean, babe.”
“Your rhyming ability is questionable.”
“Yo’ gender is questionable.”
“It’s not. I’m a cis gendered male.”
“Okay.” I grinned with my eyes. Smize. To quote Rose McGowan “My career hit rock bottom after Charmed but I don’t mind. Life is a carousel that cuts out when you least expect it. To infinity and beyond. Fuck you Shannon Doherty.”
“I’ll see you in school.”
“Wait.” I lunged toward his prepubescent body with such conviction that my bra strap snapped like a paparazzi who was solely responsible for Diana’s death. I kissed his mouth. It tasted like peanut butter. Grease me up and call me Jennifer Lopez. I didn’t take long for him to grab my bob and wet it with his fingers. Salad fingers.
“Get in the car.” I’d never seen such clogged pores. Exfoliate my minge.
“How about I don’t…” So playful.
“Get in the fucking car. You’re wasting my precious time. Are you that inconsiderate that you have forgotten that I graduate in less than a year?”
“I also graduate…”
“Sondra, you have two qualities. A gapped tooth and a chivalric corset. That isn’t enough for me. Why can’t we just converse?”
“We can do that.” I was optimistic.
“I need to show you something.” His asshole, I got a phobia… stick to my labia. Is it an irrational fear to be terrified of a non-waxed asshole? It’s just my culture. You can’t expect me to contain myself. Through thick and thin, my prostate was kept faith without hate. Hate from slut-shaming minimalists called Barbara. Barbaric Barbara, eating my lambs. Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was red because Barbara murdered it with condescension. As a mother… I’m sorry.
“Y’know, I like you Sondra.”
“I’m aware.”
“I know you are. I know you like me.”
“I like privacy and children…”
“We both like…”
“With calcium deficiency.”
“Would you like to…”
“My bones are as hard as Yugoslavia’s living standards.”
“Go on a date?”
“Yes. I will end your torment.”
“Should we go now?”
“Ed, we have to go to school. Punctuality is an anti-depressant.”
“Fuck school, Sondra.”
“5 minutes ago, that line would have floored me. Now, I’m as dry as a stillborn foal.”
“Stillborn foals are not dry.”
“They’re not?”
“Not in the slightest.”
I want to apologize for my ignorance. I’ve never had a horse, nor have I had a stillborn foal. I’m a girl who has an upbringing that has enabled me to conquer the world, man. I’ve seen people with own brand fucking cereal… do I cry? I want to. I don’t succumb to my illness. Why should you? If you want to be my lover, you got to get with my friends. With that said, I brought Ed to Jane Lynch’s house. Her yard is full of timber and beer, how queer.
“JAANE!” WHERE WAS SHE? There was no answer. She’s dead or at work? Which is more probable? 5+8=??? As I looked across her narrow courtyard, a noise interrupted my breathing. A noise? From where? I ran toward Ed but he was captivated like a seahorse.
“Did you hear that?”
“Yes.” He was on drugs.
“You’re on drugs.”
“It helps.”
“The bulimia?”
“The condensation.” I couldn’t disagree. Fact was fact.
The noise erupted my inner ear, like an anti-Semitic joke gone wrong. Do any go right? I ran up to the front door but before the door-handle met my lovable limbs, Jane’s masculine features greeted a mildly sensual duo.
“Jane! What took you?”
“Oh… nothing.” Her eyes twitched from side to side… like a plumber.
“Why are your eyes more expressive than my whole entire family?”
“My heritage.”
“I can see it.” My eyes hit past my ambiguous colleague. I saw a shadow.
“Who’s there?”
“My partner?”
“Cherry?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t Cherry. Cherry had a presence… quite like . Before I could call her out on her BS, the figure emerged. It was Laura Grindalbarrogschider.
“Laura Grindalbarrogschider!”
“Laura Grindalbarrogschider!”
“Yes, it’s that girl.” Jane didn’t get her appeal.
“Hi, Sondra.”
“Hey, Laura Grindalbar…”
“Shut up and get inside.” My stomach dropped as I was pressured into another robbery. I hope Rumour Wilis will read this. I’m undiscovered. Seriously, discover me. FAME.

*If a man can vote for equality, he can stop wearing manbuns.*

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SONDRA – ENTRY 6 (WHERE THE GLOVE, LOVE?)

*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.”

“Sondra.”

“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?”

“LOL.”

“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?

I’M PREGNANT.

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.”

“Granted…”

“Just hear me out…”

“What’s wrong?”

“It involves my stomach.”

“Ulcer.”

“Yes.”

“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?”

“Yes?”

“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.”

“Yes.”

“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.”

“Sorry?”

“You said come…”

“Yes?”

“I said inside me. It was a joke.”

“Oh…”

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

“Really?”

“Yes. It’s yours.”

“Sondra, stop wasting my time.”

“I need to talk to you about it.”

“Why?”

“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.*

SONDRA – ENTRY 5 (MY COUSIN’S PREFERENCE IS DISGUSTING!)

*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.

“Hi.”

“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.

“Yes.”

“It’s obvious.”

“How did you know?”

“Call it… woman’s intuition?”

“Ahh… ok…”

“Or your feelings for me.”

“Sondra…”

“Rubbing those thighs…”

“We’re…”

“Like knee-highs.”

“FUCKING COUSINS.”

“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?

“BITCH.”

“BITCH YASSSSSSSSS.”

“YASSSSSSS.”

“HUNTY… COME THROUGH.”

“YASSSSSS MOMMA.”

“WERQ!”

“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.”

“OH MY GOD.”

“What?”

“Guess who’s moving to the Tech?”

Ed shat. “Lady Gaga?”

“No.”

“Raven Symone?”

“No.”

“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.”

“What?”

“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?”

“Yes.”

“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.

“Stop.”

“Never.”

“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.”

“What?”

“You calling them?”

“Sondra…”

“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.

*NEXT WEEK IS GOING TO BE TRAUMATIC.*

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*

SONDRA – ENTRY 3 (GAG REFLEX OR DEPRESSION?)

*Enjoy cunts*

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’m clean.”

“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?

I can’t.

“Bye Sondra.”

“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*

SONDRA ENTRY 2 – (DADDY’S DIAPHRAGM)

*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?”

“G-R-I-N-D-A-“

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re dyslexic.”

“You’re illegitimate.”

“B-A-R-R-O-G-S-C-H-N-I-D-E-R.”

“Is she Jewish?”

“No.”

“Are you Jewish?”

“Depends.”

“Cool. Bai.”

“Bai.”

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

*NEXT PART WILL BE THURSDAY. STAY TUNED*

SONDRA – ENTRY 1 (BREASTFED OR LEFT FOR DEAD?)”

*Hello girls. Join me on my journey through each hole in my body. The drama is REAL, the people are REAL, but am I?*

“Choke on the words that leave your mouth, not those stolen in doubt” – SONDRA

So, I’m not pregnant but I am most definitely a whore. Delicious. Modelling has not prepared me for such responsibility nor had it financially sustained for situations involving maternity wear. BY CHRIST, I was one lucky dick grafter. Oh no, have I awoken my immobile mother? I can’t remember. I’ll check the cupboard to see if she’s stolen some of my Xanax, which stimulates weight loss. Someone’s insecure. Insecurities are juicy yet sweaty. Sweat leads to chronic heart issues. Ouch.

“Mummy, get up!” She was a heavy sleeper. Years of child abuse had educated a cut-throat heroine. Unbeknownst to everyone but myself, she was a sensitive soul under a primitive layer of cunt.

“What!” Is it a gerbil? No, my stale mother regained consciousness and waddled downstairs to meet my seductive self.

“I’m not pregnant…”

“Where’s my packet of rennies?” Her dressing gown was see through, hence why inverted nibbles had never looked so… situational. Christina Applegate. Samantha Who? I’m undiscovered.

“You don’t have heartburn, you’re just an addict.” She had relied too much on cheesecake during the 90’s, resulting in her irrational fear of strawberries. Upon finding her DRUGS, I threw them at her average complexion. She gulped them down like some Krabby Patty bullshit. Oh no, her varicose veins had exploded. Contrary to popular belief, mothers are not kind. You sit on one measly dick and you’re pronounced a mother. I dry hump Alec Baldwin’s daughter and I’m pronounced a whore. Also, a lesbian but people respect that now.

30th August 2001, the first day mother lay her acrylic nails on me. 14 years later, I’m on my way out of High School. How time flies. Men who fly away from their alcoholic wife astonish me. Since it was my last year of High School before University, I was determined to improve my reputation. I’m famous. Notre Dame : Conservative Academy had one policy, be on top or be bilingual. Those who were neither were ostracized and the latter were commiserated? But popularity only meant fingering your girls in the changing rooms until someone bled.. so.. I wasn’t exactly missing out. Reese Witherspoon circa Cruel Intentions, y’know? By distancing myself from the school’s small-minded sphere, I gained little friendship but gained something worth savoring. Notoriety.

“Your knickers smell of cabbage, I guess Daddy is vegan now.” Erin Schechnor had diabetes. Offense could only be taken to a certain degree. My dad is dead. All that is left of him is Shania Twain and her multiple offspring.  So real insensitive, Erin.

“I’ll rip your taint open with my fucking jaw-bone, you cock dependent fucklord.” I spat. I actually spat on her. I physically discharged saliva onto her unfortunately textured face. I got suspended. That’s why I’m writing in this diary. I’m Meg Gabot.. or should I say Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo, Princess of Genovia. I’m undiscovered.

Bai.

*FOR MORE – WAIT UNTIL MY NEXT ENTRY! SATURDAY 25TH*