It’s that time of year again, kiddies! I’m retaking College Algebra and, in due fashion, my entire family has fled to the beach…without me.

They need a break, my mother says, from taking care of my grandparents and nieces; from working and having no time for themselves. I couldn’t possibly know anything about that. No: Poor A is just a caregiver supporting elderly clients in their homes for far less than a living wage, daily. In what world would I need a break?

Aside from the feelings of anger and abandonment, I think I’m doing quite well. After four days of hearing terms that make me want to cry/run/scream/all of the above I have yet to drop the class. There are more than enough chores at both my parents’ and sister’s houses to keep me occupied until they return next weekend.

The luck in having my therapist around the corner from that number dungeon isn’t lost on me.

By the grace of God or the Universe I managed to pass my IT 101 course. In fact, it ended up being fairly easy for me. There were three other students that I made fast friends with: Clint is a grocer, Jack wants to be a cop, and Emily is a lot like me. We are both geeks, we both take care of old people daily, and we are both overweight. This is, of course, not a put-down: why would insult someone who is basically my best friend now?

Since we left of last, Carter and Ella signed a lease without me. Keeping their promise to help me get out of my parent’s home (the situation keeping me sick) was just too much of a burden on their childish minds. Our plan to divide our time between working and taking care of Carter post-op was yet another one to fall by the way side. Just like helping me take down Stalker Kolin, the president of the Letter club after he pursued Matt and slandered his girlfriend, Hannah. One could walk on all of their broken promises to me.

Needless to say, my choice in besties is dismal. For nearly a week I have heard next to nothing from Emily. Granted, her now absentee mother took her back to Virginia for a visit with her brothers and step-dad. Most of my calls and texts (many mid-crisis) were ignored by her which I understand to an extent: she missed them while she’s been taking care of her grandmother. When she managed to get back to me, her replies were without punctuation and made me feel like a monster for daring to ask where she went. This is why you shouldn’t tell people you love them without knowing them for at least a few months, A; Jesus Christ!

In summary, I am stuck in the center of my blood red Bible belt state, looking after other’s responsibilities, sleeping in an empty house, and taking a class that re-traumatizes me daily.

Have a great trip, Mom! Hope you can sleep knowing you left me six years ago to the day in an identical situation. The only differences? Last time I hadn’t had an abortion, I wasn’t juggling school and work, and at least my sister and her family were in town. Oh, but you stayed in the continental US this time, so I guess your sacrifice should warm my heart while I am slave to the whims of my reptilian brain. You asked why I didn’t just invite that nice girl from the bar to stay with me.

Katrina? She’s still moving to Portland. This, however, won’t keep her from flirting with anything that moves. Poor sods: at least I now know that her affections are as fleeting as a summer breeze. The rest get to find out how I did; that, though she is brilliant, her newly thin body apparently gives her license to use friends and influence drunk people. No wonder I’m sober these days!

As of about two weeks ago I haven’t had a drop of the devil juice. Could it be because one of my only kept Tinder contacts is newly sober and a good influence? Or is it because the last time I drank I ended up being talked into doing party drugs and having a threesome plus one. Though I may have learned that my double-sider smells like a male catheter when wet, the greater lesson was not to get involved with anyone who is married in any capacity. No matter if they have an “arrangement” or make themselves seem otherwise bi-friendly, it’s always a bad idea. Take it from me, potential unicorns: you don’t want anything to do with the shitshow that is a failing straight marriage. You’ll give them hours of orgasms then be blamed for their eventual divorce if you so much as dare to ask for you shirt back. If there happens to be an extra unicorn there she will hit you up for money weeks later as if you owe her anything.

Funny how you can be “the best [someone] ever had” and still be treated like a lowly whore within days. At least call-girls and prostitutes get paid: all I got was a broken vibrator and one hell of a comedown.

Which reminds me: never do drugs, kids. Best case scenario is you feel invincible, but act like a fool; worst case scenario is you end up ruining your relationships and body, putting yourself in danger, and spending one plus night of your week in a church basement lamenting your poor decisions. Oh, or you die.


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