Hoo Boi
I don’t do whiskey or sleeping aids. But I have written a metric ton of stuff I regret. This stuff hardly ever sees past the confines of my pages app, but it’s embarrassing nonetheless to think that if I died some rando scrolling my stuff might run across it by accident and go “yep, it’s always the quiet ones”. I have ranted endlessly, my lousy and dated opinions on full display. Resting cringe face is an understatement of what this drivel inspires. Since I’m a hoarder of words I never delete anything major so it’s just...there. Time begets more documents, thus putting more space between me and my illustrious hot takes. But it doesn’t negate their presence. I have published some very regrettable things, but I was perfectly sober in doing so, which...debatably makes it worse. These things can all be summed up in a singular word: Wattpad.
Ah Wattpad, repository of everything distasteful, smutty and degenerate. I’m being hyperbolic of course—not everything, just...most. I joined a few years back, and what is it about being surrounded by degenerate things that pulls you down to the same level of degeneracy? Most of the content I fabricated during that time was, honestly, quite horrid. The ‘horrid’ mostly centered around exploitation-tier violence and general vulgarity. Whatever phase I was in compelled me to be eDgY, and most know that’s never a good thing. My edge wanted to go out with a bang, and go out with a bang it did. Were I to read back over the docs, I’d probably suffer a visceral reaction, somewhere between cringe-stung anaphylaxis and outright denial that I was ever that stupid.
A few things (read: a lot of things) I’ve published on here have been regrettable. Thus my purge a few months ago. Maybe I should make the purge an annual thing. I can see fans of the movie doing a double-take at that last line if removed from context but whatevs. I’ve still never seen the movie.
“Maybe I should make the purge an annual thing.” -CatLady1, 2021.
My conclusion is this.
(Writing to Prose itself now) The slave challenge you took down was really interesting. I know I give you flak over challenges (read: Epstein, Hitler), but I do so in jest and I’m all (most) for venturing beyond my comfort zone. Your challenges help me do that quite often. I actually was in the process of editing my entry for submission when you changed the prompt, so just know the challenge itself wasn’t completely ignored. :)
#hyperbolic, #satire, #opinion
and now I’m just writing to fill the word quota I wonder what I can write yep I already know all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy
CHECKMATE~
‘’By the time you read this I will be already over the country border and you won’t be able to track me down. The person in charge of the farming department would have lost not only his head, but also his two pet goldfish which I quickly made into tiny chunks with my swords.
‘’He thought he was clever. Locking the supplies we needed in his own warehouse. Can you believe it? I just had to get to the supplies and make sure they were delivered to the right folks, the farmers.
‘’You may be wondering— why did I do it? The guy had not provided the necessary supplies to us farmers. I had to take matters into my own hands, well, because I knew if the farmers association tried to get to it- then by the time the supplies would have been handed to us (farmers) the right planting season mark would have already passed. It would have been too late by then!
‘’Ah, some of the farmers may not want to use the supplies after knowing that it is from the home of the one who was murdered. Don’t worry about the dude already. He is in a better place. I hope. At least I was able to help him move on to a place where he can rest for all eternity.
‘’I would readily and swiftly do it again! That’s right, I am not going to say sorry to his family, not even to the rest of his buddies in the farming department.
‘‘To my fellow dear farmers, I hope you put all the supplies to good use. I wish you a wonderful & bountiful harvest season!’’
The local town officer squinted his eyes after he had read my late night post back to me. He slammed the paper onto the wooden table. I looked at it and then back at him.
Me: ‘‘I....that was not me...someone must have hacked my account..’’
He scoffed and spat in my face. His partner watched from the corner of the investigation room.
I shook my head and tried to wipe the spit off my face. But the handcuffs were too tight around my wrists. I could not even touch my chin.
Me: ‘‘Hey, I am telling you— I did not write that post!’’
The police officer slapped me, not once, but twice. First one landed on my left cheek. The other on my right came without a break.
I felt tears begin streaming down my face. This was not how I thought the new year had for me.
After a little while, the officers left the investigation room. I sniffed and sighed. Did I really write that post?
I tried to remember if I really did write that post. Soon it hit me. I did, and had actually did my best to remove it from the site- Mbaula. I thought it was deleted from my wall.
Oh, I guess maybe someone had saved it to their own account and now the post was brought back to my attention. One that would haunt me for the rest of my life. I must have had too much to drink. Uh, what a mess!
I can not even pin this post on my twin. She does not have a Pingo account. If I made a joint account with her name, the officers would think I was trying to pin it on her. I am doomed!
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=shv3V37wNXE
#CHECKMATE~ ©
6th Jan., 2021
Gone Sour
I’m awful on whiskey. My boyfriend says my eyes glaze over. Presently, we are having a conversation about my mom that is like pounding dead horse flesh, and I am trying very hard to either look away from him or make steady eye contact with him in order to appear sober. Appearances fail me. They always do - my eyes are too big and my face is too narrow. Nothing feels worse than imitating what you should be.
Sober. I should be sober. I have a habit of posting to social media while intoxicated. I also have a phone addiction, so that I’m glued to the screen for most of my banal days. I pushed my phone away from me while drinking the whiskey sour, the one that saw me pouring out ice for another one and rehashing the aforesaid horse flesh. I did this to appear ‘engaged’ in our conversation. While we spoke, I could feel my body vibrating. I had posted a risky post on social media just minutes before, and I knew it was a mistake. I had known it before I’d hit “publish.”
While I remained not engaged while trying to appear engaged, I couldn’t stop thinking about the post. My mother had been abusive, but not like that. Had it been physical? I don’t know. I remember the door slamming, the screwdriver that came out and undid my bedroom door frame so she could leer at me and my oval face. I didn’t drink when I was nineteen and I wasn’t sorry to pour my mother’s whiskey down the drain afterwards.
I had a bad habit of slamming metaphorical doors. I had shut out my mom years ago.
Her email to remind me to cash her Christmas check was not going to be enough of a reason to get me to love her again. I needed so much more, so much more that while I hit the “publish” button on my post, my phone dropped to the floor from the slam of my fingers hitting the button. Slam. A sound and a plea.
While I sipped my now fourth whiskey sour, I heard my phone start to vibrate. I’m sorry, I told my boyfriend. I’m getting a phone call.
I didn’t know multiple notifications, sent a hundred times over the course of a minute, could create a kind of seemingly permanent vibration mode on my phone. The responses to my post were angry. Unfortunately for me, there is a “dislike” button on this social media platform, which, incredibly, people press in all seriousness. Not that this wasn’t serious. Child abuse is, well, a big deal.
I had now abandoned the conversation with my boyfriend. I looked again at the picture that had sparked the hundreds of negative comments. It was a picture of my bedroom door unhinged from the wall. I had said something in the caption about screaming into the darkness of the past. This wasn’t going to end well.
I thought back to the previous moments, however long ago they were to the present moment, and why I had hit the “publish” button. Is there a reason why we do anything? I thought about the human psyche and decided I was drunk.
Even then I couldn’t cut myself off. My boyfriend resumed our conversation, unknowing. He didn’t use the particular social media platform and would remain oblivious of my post forever, because I would never tell him. Perhaps real life beats the social media game. In real life, the “dislike” button is merely ending the conversation. I thought back to the moments that had preceded this moment, and thought about how I had ended a tangible conversation with someone I loved.
It was my mother. I had ended the conversation with my mother.
My, what a scandal!
I have literally never experienced such an excruciating headache ever before in my life as I have in this current moment.
As of now I am sitting in front of my laptop screen staring at the brightness with bloodshot eyes, cradling my head with both hands while my fingers pull at my hair at the mishap that has occurred.
How on earth did I get this drunk? I only remember getting to the club, dancing with one guy and then nothing. Nada. Just the exhilarating memory of his tanned arms wrapped around my torso playing in my head like a broken record. Who even was the guy? Did I get his name? Or a phone number maybe? I rummaged around in my purse only to find a note that said in graceful, slanted handwriting: “We will meet again, mi amor.” I crumpled it up and threw it on the ground. Thanks for the help, genius.
My apartment looked appalling to say the least. A heap of clothes lay on the floor my dressing table a mess from the night before and shoes of all shapes and sizes scattered around the place. But that was the least of my concerns. What was most concerning was the numerous pictures on my Instagram account circling the Internet like wildfire.
36 likes and an onslaught of hypocritical comments.
Wow. Okay.
The very first thing I did was delete them. Then I went through the camera roll. Oh god.
There were pictures of my mouth overflowing with what looked like a bottle of vodka in my hand, my cleavage shining and proudly out and about on display but still covering the important bits. The next was a series of blurred pictures filled with cheeky smiles and boisterous laughter, the faces spreading wide across the screen.
I clicked on the last picture and zoomed in on each of the ruggedly handsome faces. I knew none of them but together we looked like a gang of very attractive best friends with the way we were hugging each other, pearly whites adorning our faces.
All of a sudden my phone shot up from its discharge induced sleep and wouldn’t stop blinking. I thought it would commit suicide by buzzing right off the table.
“Looks like someone had a rough night lmao”
“Wow, partying hard huh?”
“Whose the hottie on the left?”
Thank god it was just my friends poking fun at me. I was not ready to face the criticism just yet. I was in too much pain to be angry at this point.
I sighed and flopped on to my bed wishing the earth would just swallow me up. How. Embarrassing. Also I had my cousins on Instagram. Would they tell my family?
I let out a slew of curses and got to dialing them but then I remembered they must still be sleeping cause of the time difference. I’ll just leave them a message when I get this headache off my back I thought to myself and got back up to get a glass of water.
Could this day get any worse?
Do No Wrong
“Fuck this country!” I yelled as I slammed my fist against a wall, as if to convince myself the act was an intentional manifestation of my anger than the precaution against drunken collapse it truly was. The events of the night were already fading as I stumbled into my home and fell into my old armchair. I frowned at my feet in front of me, seething at the incompetence of my fellow countrymen. “Sending it to Hell in a handbasket - voting in puppets and pigs!” I said, though if anyone had been around to hear it I imagine the words would have been incomprehensible.
I was a small-time journalist of an online post called The Patriot. My scant but loyal base of fans appreciated the provocative rhetoric with which I tackled issues in the United States such as complacent government and the growing globalist movement. I considered myself underrated, but had always chalked up the somewhat stagnant growth of my career to a combination of the relatively low publicity of the journal to which I contributed, and my tendency to stay away from the more passive and broad-reaching buzz-words preferred by my peers, who merely regurgitated the status-quo to appeal to the masses rather than speak from the heart. I looked contemptuously upon such pieces as the work of sellouts.
I sat, thinking of all my words falling on deaf ears, and found growing in myself the familiar spark of rage; the pent-up frustration of hammering a blunt chisel against a hunk of marble that would not yield its ugly form. I surged to my feet, barely holding out against a wave of dizziness, and sat down again at my desktop computer...
I was awoken by a beam of bright light peeking over the eastern mountain range and through my living room window. Squinting and shielding my eyes, I groggily raised my head off the desk at which I had apparently fallen asleep. Eventually heaving myself upright, I began brewing some coffee. I stared absently at the floor waiting on the machine, when the buzz of my smartphone on a nearby counter roused me from my stupor. I rarely paid the brief buzzes of minor notifications any mind, unless I was expecting an important email or some such thing. I began sipping my coffee and sat back down to continue working on my latest opinion piece. My focus, already worn thin by a pounding headache, was broken by a series of further notifications from my phone. I promptly powered it off and continued writing.
The number of comments my pieces received averaged at around 40 to 50. I perused them often and would reply to as many as I could. To my surprise, the piece I had published only the day before already had 51 comments. I smiled to myself that my work had finally begun to garner more recognition. I read the first comment:
“Two-faced bitch.”
I laughed. Hecklers were always amusing to me. I replied: “Thanks for the input! :)” The next few comments were standard praise from some of my readers I knew by name. I noticed the familiar profile picture of RoperRed, who reliably praised everything I published. He wrote:
“I thought better of you. All I’ll say is that it’s in your best interest to come out with an apology soon, and it had better be a good one.” At this I shook my head in confusion. Ah well, I thought. I suppose I said something he didn’t agree with. I replied: “I’m sorry to hear that you’re disappointed in me; I know you’ve supported my work for a long time. But I speak from the heart, I always have, and I won’t apologize for that.” Satisfied that I had stood firm, I continued reading. The negative comments vastly outnumbered the positive. I wondered what it was I had said that caused such a reaction. The piece was one expressing support for the American troops in Iraq, a common theme in many pieces of mine. None of the comments made the situation any clearer; they all merely expressed what seemed baseless and indiscriminate hatred. I began to grow worried that I had become the victim of some slander operation perpetrated by a competitor or offended party. I refreshed the page and found the number of comments had increased to 60. The first one listed was a reply back from RoperRed:
“Shameful. Hardest unsubscription of my life.” Before I could think of a response to this, I heard the front door open. I turned to see my wife, Vinna, who had spent the previous three days on a business trip for the insurance company she worked for as an agent. She smiled wide and let out a sharp sigh.
“Home at last!” She moved over to me and we shared a kiss.
“How was it?” I asked.
She gave that look that told me she had dealt with one idiot too many lately. I frowned my sympathy.
“Did you not get my text?” she asked.
“Ah, I didn’t, sorry. Phone was distracting me so I turned it off.”
She gave me a quizzical look. “Ok, well I was picking up some filets for the dinner we planned, and I sent you a picture to see which you liked the look of more. I had to choose myself as best I could.”
I grabbed my phone and powered it back on. Immediately it buzzed a notification. I glanced at the bar and saw it was from Twitter. I opened the app.
“I sent it as a text, babe, not a tweet.” Vinna laughed.
I slowly moved my finger towards my notifications.
“Everything ok?”
I read the first thing that was written on my profile:
“FUCK AMERICA, FUCK AMERICANS, AND FUCK SOLDIERS FOR DEFENDING COWARDS AND PIGS”
My eyes briefly widened in horror before I remembered suddenly the previous night, and all the anger I had felt. Vinna read over my shoulder.
“Don, did you actually tweet that? What were you thinking?!”
I paused a moment before answering. I actually went and said that... I didn’t always get angry when I drank, but all the times I could remember when I was most furious, alcohol was always involved. I was so angry, but... I shrugged. “We both know this country’s headed towards a bad place, Vin. I just wanted people to start waking up.”
Vinna was silent for a moment, then said, “Did it blow up?”
I nodded.
“Then you need to apologize! This could ruin your career!”
I chuckled. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity, dear. I’m more well-known than ever because of this. I didn’t get to where I am by cowing down to a few hecklers. I’m standing by it.”
The home phone began to ring. I snatched it up and answered. “Hello?” I said, annoyed.
“Hello, Don.” Came the reply whose voice I recognized as Joan’s, my editor.
“Oh hey, Joan! What’s up?” I asked, nervous as to the reason behind this call.
“The Patriot’s in trouble, Don. We’re getting bombarded by media outlets.”
I buried my face in my hand and responded. “I... I’m sorry. I’ll delete the tweet, put out an apology, do whatever it takes...”
“You’ve made this rather difficult, Don. It seems you’ve already given your statement; that your words were spoken “from the heart.”
“That was- I-I didn’t know at the time-”
“That hardly matters now. The hard truth is, there’s no longer a scenario where you make it through this with us and we aren’t portrayed as supporting the message you gave. It’s been decided - you’re being let go.”
My whole body went numb. I let the phone drop from my hand. I heard Vinna begin to cry.
“Today on TNM we have Mr. Don Cowper, a former journalist for the online news site The Patriot, whose controversial tweet has sparked outrage.”
I sat facing the camera, dressed presentably.
“The first thing I want to ask you, Mr. Cowper, were you of sound and sober mind when you tweeted this?”
“Yes.”
The woman hosting the news show paused for a moment, as if expecting me to say more. She continued, “Ok, and given all that has happened to you this past week, with the harassment and the loss of your job, do you regret what you said?”
“I... I regret how people reacted to it. I’m a passionate American, and I just believe a little fiery language is what’s necessary to motivate people these days.”
“Now hang on, Mr. Cowper. In the same sentence you just referred to yourself as a ‘passionate American’ who supports the message ‘F America.’ How does that work?”
“I only meant that America as it is now is something rather shameful compared to what it has been in the past.”
She laughed. ”‘America is shameful.’ I think I understand the kind of person you are, Mr. Cowper. I just have one question left. What are you going to do next?”
“Find a job where writing like mine isn’t silenced, if a place like that exists.”
She laughed again, harder. “Given all that’s happened, ‘silent’ is the last word I would use to describe this situation. Well, Mr. Cowper, we’re out of time. Thank you for joining us.”
I nodded curtly.
I lay in bed that night, sleepless. Vinna had to see to an emergency with one of her clients, so I was alone. I had since deleted the tweet; the replies were full of threats of death and violence. One even listed out my full home address. I heard the creak of the front door opening and rose to meet my wife. To my horror, the figure standing in the doorway was not Vinna.
The woman who had invaded my home stared with blank eyes that looked through me rather than at me. I glanced around. The best weapon within reach was a half-empty bottle of wine, which I took up. “Who are you, and why are you in my home?” I asked, trying to sound calm.
“You...” she breathed. Her head trembled, and her jaw worked wordlessly. In her hand, I now noticed, was a long kitchen knife. “My son... your fault.” A tear streaked down her face.
At this I grew terrified, and angry. “You’re talking nonsense! Get out of here before you get hurt!”
“I TOLD HIM NOT TO GO!” she shrieked. “THE LAST THING HE SHOWED ME BEFORE ENLISTING WAS WRITTEN BY YOU!” She broke into sobbing.
“What are you? An escaped mental patient? I-”
“You didn’t even believe...” She took a wobbly step towards me, and I retreated, holding the wine bottle threateningly. “You didn’t even believe in what you made him think was right! You’re a monster!” She made to lunge with the blade, and I smashed the bottle across her cheek. The knife fell from her hand, which I quickly grabbed, and brandished in front of me.
“It’s over. Get out now, and I won’t call the police.”
She looked up at me, bleeding from jagged wounds made by the broken glass, and shook her head weakly. “I’d already lost his father to cancer. I have nothing now.” She advanced, and leapt with sudden ferocity to grab the hand in which I held the knife. She dug hard into the veins on the underside of my wrist, forcing me to let go. Retrieving the blade, she then pinned me down with strength belied by her thin frame. As she prepared to bury the knife, I scrabbled nearby for a shard of glass, and thrust hard at her neck. Her jaw seized up, she produced a sickening gurgle, and blood began to stream. I pushed her off of me and sat up. The grisly scene swirled before my vision, my traumatized mind hardly capable of cognition. For awhile I simply sat there, only faintly aware of just how much the life I had known had been shattered. I glanced at the woman’s body. In her hand was a slip of paper. It was a newspaper clipping that read:
“In honor of our fallen soldiers, we regrettably but respectfully list below the latest reported casualties in the ongoing war:”
One name stood out to me.
“Roper, Richard.”
Rosemary is for remembrance
The phone bleeps, that horrible noise messenger makes is repeating constantly, I rub my eyes and crawl out of the mess my bed has become.
I don’t remember going to bed, my head hurts, the phone is ringing, who’d be ringing me? Everyone knows I don’t answer phones, it stops, then it starts again. I drag myself down to the kitchen, yes the phone is in the kitchen I don’t take it to bed, If MI5 tried to track me by my phone all they would discover is the whereabouts of my kitchen. I simply don’t like answering it. I pick it up and swipe ignor then notice there are 73 unanswered calls. Seventy three! Seventy three! bugger them, it’s my day off, they can deal with it themselves. I turn the phone off.
Operning the cupboard door I find myself staring a an empty rum bottle, alcohol and me don’t get on, and I don’t ever remember buying rum. But more importantly, far more importantly, it stands next to an empty Nescafé jar, I might not be friends with alcohol but caffeine and me have a very close relationship.
The landline starts to ring, I have a landline? Obviously I do but I have no idea where it is and the noise is hurting my head, I ignore it and head up to the bathroom.Washed and doused up on painkillers I head out to my local coffee shop, as I lock the front door I experienced a flash back of coming home with a bottle in my hand.
Lannie hands me the first coffee of the morning and gives me an odd look,
“checked your FB page this morning?”
“ no, my iPads fla, forgot to charge it overnight”
“well you should, there’s a few folk want to talk to you”
“what for“
Our local news hound spots me in the cafe, doubles back and bustles in
“Fran don’t you ever answer the phone?” he bellows across the room
“Is it true.? They say the Bishops on his way”
“what“ I say screwing my face up and shaking my head
“What you wrote, the beeb’s sending a crew down, give us a scoop this morning, I need the money.”
I remember a typing something , my blood runs cold.
I run up the hill back home, fumbling for my keys I remember a few more bits, no I didn’t, surely not. I plug my pad in an flash up the offending page
ah
my face is scarlet, tears are running down my face
I hear a vehicle outside, rush round, close all the blinds lock all windows and doors turn off all the lights and creep up to my little attic studio.
I sit down cross legged on the floor and reread the page, it’s too late to delet, it’s been copied and shared. I should never have written it it’s outrageous, defamitory and unbelievable. Unfortunately, every word is true. I think life is about to get very hard for a unassuming florist in a small market town.
suddenly I see the absurdity of it all and start to laugh, my world is about to fall to pieces round me and all I can do is laugh.
Death on Church Lane
The road runs right up against a field. The truck sputters to a stop, stuck in a rut. Four young white men climb out of the truck, look around, wonder where they hell they are. Looks like something from a picture book, Old South and all that. Fields full of bent over niggers.
What you doin wit those fancy duds, boy?
A black man on a mule looks down at Jim Bob, then over at his three truckmates.
Who you callin Boy, boy? Jim Bob sneers.
What about them other three, they fancy clothes and them fallin down H on they necks?
Aint no H, fool, volunteers one of the other three white men. It’s a double lightning bolt. It means we’re white and you ain’t.
You sure as hell ain’t neither, snarls the man from his mule. I oversees all the niggers on this here plantation and you one of ’em. All four y'all. Why Marster bought four new uppity niggers sure do beat all. Now get your black ass too work, all of you, fore you feel this. From muleback the overseer waves a horsewhip.
The four new slaves look down at themselves. Dungarees and sweatshirts like every male in 1950. Except the iron crosses on the shirts. They'd been were headed for a White Power rally in Churchville, Mississippi. Till the driver, Jimbob, drove through the wrong lane.
I told you it wasn’t no weigh station, Jimbo, mumbles one of the four. It was some kind of portal like you see in movies. We are someplace else than where we come from or where we was goin. Look over there. Nigger with a plow. Plow! Shee-it. Aint nobody used a plow like that in a hunnerd years.
Jimbo looks down at his hands. Spreads them out, turns them over so the mule rider can see the pink palms.
We are white men, you fool nigger! You better watch your black mouth!
The mule rider laughs long and loud and the other black men working the field snicker.
This whip gonna tear your black skin off, snarls the overseer. He's not laughing any more.
The whip comes down. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.
What we gonna do with they dead bodies? a field worker asks.
You gonna haul em to that contraption they come in. Stuff em inside.
We oughta go see can we find they horses or they mules, whatever drug that tin wagon.
They long gone, says the man on the mule. You try to take off look for em you gonna die. The mule man rubs his pistol. A handful of the field slaves obey the order to get the bodies gone.
Here in Churchville they say somewhere on Church Lane there’s a broken down, rusted out pickup truck full of dead iron-cross wearing white men going nowhere. Every Halloween local kids dare each other to go look for it. But by now it's probably rotted to the ground, the bloody black-dirt ground.
Oh!!?
Mrs President!, Mrs President!
Yes sir?
I am Mr. Challenge from Prose News and we will like you to explain your recent post.
Pardon me sir, I am not awhere of posting anything recently.
Ma'am on the Writers Co. on your public account @FreshwaterFish you left a comment
stating that drinking whiskey is like water to you, you can walk in a straight line but might of had a DUI or two.
What an outrageous slander! I the President would not post such a thing!
But Mrs President it was posted on your public domain.
Sir, well it is not true!
Well Mrs President the public does not believe you.
My candidacy has been transparent for the world to see.
That may be true Mrs President but, can you say you have never drank whiskey?
Mr Challenge I have nothing more to say. Have a nice day.
Mrs President!, Mrs. President!, are you really running away!?
I am infront of a catheral, I only came to pray.
In the catheral Mrs. President could not fathom
The whiskey incident or her other action that night which was very random.
Madame President please sit in the chair
Mister secretary whispered in her ear.
What. are we going to do Mister sectetary?
It seems like I am about to loose my candidacy.
Online I am trending number one
As an alcoholic, an abuser of power, and as a scum.
Well Madame President they could of called you a prostitute
Watch yourself Mister secretary now is not the time for you to be obtuse!
How much longer can we hide in here?
As long as we like, the Bishop has received all his donation/charity moneys he wouldn't dare.
We have to devise a plan, before we go out there to meet that man.
You mean your new fan, Mr. Challenge from Prose News?
Isn't it funny how he was the first to bring up that issue.
It is a good thing you have thick skin and is not fragile as tissue.
Shut up! Mister secretary and do your job!
Calm done Madame President, you are in a church of god.
Beside your publicist is already on it.
She already is holding a press conference trying to appease the public.
What you need to do
Madame President is to apologise.
Why?
Do you want them to see through the lies?
But I didn't do any of what they are saying.
That maybe true, but you know it is the blame game we are playing.
Hypothetically, the public are like your children
But they later found out that you are barren
Yes you loved them, fed them, clothed them, and give them shelter.
But that one little lie about their birth is all they can remember.
So yes Madame President you need to apologise.
You are a mother, their mother, in the public eyes
Your publicist emailed me the script you need to follow
You are to cry and beg for forgiveness, so you won't look shallow.
Put some holy water in your eye
Why would I do that?
The amount of hands dipped in that dish, bacteria are in there swimming like a school of wild fish.
Ready to go?
Let's give them a show,
Here she come!, here she comes!
Mrs. President!, Mrs. President!, what did you pray for?
Did you find the answer to my question behind the catheral door?
Oh? and you are?
Challenge from Prose News Mrs. President.
Mrs President knew that this was her cue, to do what she alone can do
I am sorry for causing the public such unrest
I really thought that I was doing my best
I knew that my stand on equality for all will make me some foes
But I didn't expect them to be right under my nose.
I am not apologising because the whiskey incident is true
But because I fail to protect myself, and if I can't do that, how can I protect you
I fought for lower taxes for the lower class and the poor,
Immigration, equal rights and pay
But look at what greeted me at the catheral door
As hard working as I am, do you think I could drink whiskey like water and still stand?
That is a risk I can't take
After pledging my loyalty to this people, and to this land, it is a pledge I WILL NOT break!
I will leave the investigation of this incident in capable hands
They will find the culprit whether man or woman
So Mrs. President are you saying you were hacked and this incident is not true?
Mr. Challenge from Prose News right?
If someone accused you of plagiarism and falsifying articles to stay relevant in the news industry
Won't you dispute the claims and try to clear your name in a hurry?
Then Mrs. President lift up her head
The crowds that had gathered gasp
For her eyes were swollen, puffy and red.
The holy water had done its' job
Mrs. President came out of the situation looking like a heroin
But Mr. Challenge from Prose News looked like a bad guy and a snob.
Mister secretary whisked Mrs. President away, without further delay
The case was closed after some weeks
Ofcourse it was blamed on the Sussian hackers and the Senator Leeks
Challenge hand in his resignation, but Prose News told him to take a vacation
And for Mrs. Persident, she may not have written that post but what she was doing that night is not something she can boast.
/
/
I’m dreaming of a “Write” Christmas
“You sure you’ll be okay? I can stay if you need me to.”
Vanna adjusted her bag on her shoulder and gave me a sympathetic look. I grimaced. The last thing I needed was pity.
“Yes. Cleo and I will be fine. Honest.”
I gestured to my cat, who was lounging on the couch. She stretched, seemingly in response to her name, and let out a long yawn.
Must be exhausting to sleep all day.
I rolled my eyes and turned back to face my friend. She pursed her lips. Here we go...
“It’s just - it’s Christmas! You know, and no one should be alone on Christmas- and...well...”
She paused. There it was, again. Pity.
“You know...with...David...”
I finally let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I stared down at my feet, wringing my shirt tightly in my fingers. I chewed on my lip thoughtfully before looking back up at her.
“I’m okay. I promise. Have a great time with Nick.”
I forced a smile. It would take a lot of Hallmark movies and dancing around in reindeer pajamas while blasting Christmas music, but I would be just fine.
“Maybe you should write about it. You know, get it out. That always helped you in the past. Do you still have your dating blog?”
I nodded. Yeah, maybe I would do that.
* * * * * * * * *
Cleo and I were having a quiet and relaxing Christmas night. I took a few photos of her snuggled up with my stuffed Rudolph, complete with her stocking plush tucked between her paws. I shook my head at the tv as Sandy left her city boyfriend for the small town baker.
“It always wraps up perfectly at the end of these movies. Like a neat little present.”
I mumbled under my breath with a sigh. I tossed the remote to the side as I got up to check the fridge. Cheese platter, obviously...Shrimp, sure! Ooh. Homemade eggnog? Yes! I grabbed my snowman mug and put together some goodies. I hummed a few carols under my breath as I made my way back to the couch and started another movie.
3 hours, (?) amount of cheese, and 4 cups of egg nog later
“You know what? I am…”
I swallowed hard and squinted before letting out a hiccup.
“I am...a beautiful, successful woman. I am funny too, I’m so funny! And if Davidddddd can’t see...you know what? I’m going to show...I’ll show him.”
I stumbled into my bedroom and tore apart my dresser looking for my green lingerie.
Festive!
Cleo meowed after a rolled up sock bonked her in the face. I slid to the floor in a heap of clothes, about to give up the search when I remembered my Christmas dress..the red one, the one I was going to wear tonight. I hoisted myself up and wobbled over to the closet.
“I guess I must be tired..”
I grumbled as I noticed my faltering gait. Nevertheless, I made it to the bathroom and I tugged my dress on. I smoothed down my hair and, after a few attempts at applying some lipstick, I decided to take a few selfies.
“I am a vixen.”
I sauntered back into the living room and sat - er, fell back down on the couch. I posted the photos and absent-mindedly flipped through my feed before turning my attention to Readdit. I tried, I really did try to stop looking at the breakup blog, but oh, like a moth to an all consuming flame, I eagerly scrolled through the newest posts.
“Alone for the holidays? Vent here.”
I slid my fingers down the screen. Yes, yes I would…
Just then, I felt my stomach turn.
Oh no.
I really overdid it with the sugar. I nearly tripped over myself as I hurled myself into the bathroom and collapsed at the toilet, just in time.
* * * * * * * * *
I woke up feeling just awful. It had been a long night of water, probiotics, bathroom runs, and...well. I couldn’t really remember anything else. I briefly glanced at my phone, then did a double take. 15 missed calls, countless messages, multiple texts. I smiled as I tried to keep my eyes open. People must’ve really liked the pictures. I am beauty, I am grace…
Gurgle
I am going to puke all over the place.
I jumped off my bed and leapt over the strewn clothes.
* * * * * * * * *
When I finally was able to grab my phone so that I could greet my adoring public, it died. Ugh! I plugged it in and, well, I must’ve fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew I was woken up by a familiar ring tone.
“UUrrgg...Hello?”
I answered groggily as I slowly sat up.
“ASH! Ashley! Why haven’t you answered my texts? Did you just wake up?”
Vanna demanded. I held the phone away a bit.
“Can you not shout, please?”
I rubbed my forehead, then slapped around my bed for the bottle of tylenol.
“What is going on with you?”
I took a long swig of water and winced as I forced the pills down. What was she talking about?
“I don’t feel good..? I had a lot of sugar. Cheese, cookies. You know. ’Tis the season.”
I waved my hands around half-heartedly, admittedly forgetting for just a moment that she couldn’t see me.
She was quiet for a moment.
“Look at your phone.”
She finally whispered. I sighed and put her on speaker, then started scrolling through my notifications. Most of the calls, and a good deal of the texts, were from my mother.
I THOUGHT I RAISED YOU BETTER THAN THAT!
WHERE DID I GO WRONG?
I’m 33.
DO YOU NEED THERAPY? SHOULD I CALL DR.PEI?
My pediatrician?
I shook my head and scrolled through the other texts. A few were from friends asking me if I was okay, if I needed to talk. A few were from numbers I didn’t recognize, asking me if I was free this weekend.
“I don’t get it, what’s going on? Is this about the pictures I took? I mean it was a little cleavage, sure, but I think my mom needs to get over it. I mean, really. What does she expect me to do? I have to get back out there at some point. I don’t know what the cards have in store for me, but I hope ‘Old Maid’ was just a game.”
Vanna was quiet again.
“Wine.”
“I’m not whining. My head hurts, but I think that I’m handling it -”
“No. WINE. Did you drink last night? Were you drunk?”
I scoffed.
“You know I don’t drink. I told you, wine tastes like benadryl to me. It’s ghastly.”
“Well..what did you have last night?”
“I told you, just a lot of sugar. Cookies, cheese, uh..shrimp. Ooh! That eggnog that we had..it was amazing!”
“EGGNOG?”
Vanna yelled. I dropped the phone.
“Yeah, it was a lot of sugar. I don’t think it agreed with me.”
“ASHLEY. EGGNOG has alcohol in it!”
“No, I googled...I looked it up! It’s uh...cloves, nutmeg, milk-”
“Yeah. And then you add alcohol to it. Lots of rum. Yum. Oh my God. You were drunk. Everything makes sense now. Normally I’d be so proud..”
I blinked a few times.
“I’m still not getting it, so if you’d like to clue me in…”
“Rigghhht. Uh, you posted something pretty...uh..vulgar, and...spicy about uh, David. Last night.”
My heart leapt into my chest.
“Uh…”
My voice cracked.
“I did what where now?”
“You posted this huge diatribe, a story, really... about your break up, about being alone for the holidays, it’s...there’s some smut in there...and you compared his...um...manhood, to a candy cane. I laughed out loud at that part.”
I felt all of the color leave my face.
“And...where did I post this?”
I tried to stay calm. I took a few deep, steadying breaths. I was shaking.
“Uh...”
Her silence said it all. I closed my eyes. Okay. That was - that was manageable. Everything I posted on there was set to friends only.
“But...you linked it to your Flutter account, and made the post public so that your Flutter followers could see it. I think it was originally on Readdit…”
W H A T?
“Flutter? I haven’t used Flutter since like, 2015 when I refluttered that starbutter giveaway and didn’t win.”
Not that I was bitter about it or anything.
“Yeah, well, I guess you thought this was a good reason to reactivate your account…look, check your accounts, all of them, and then...call me back. I tried to do damage control but...it’s a lot…”
I swallowed down the lump that had formed in my throat. I tossed my phone to the side and pulled my laptop on the bed.
And there it was..in all its glory.
On the 12th day of Christmas, my drunk self gave to me…
12 flaming comments
11 shocked reacts
10 exes texting
9 innuendos
8 laughing gifs
7 Flutter re-fleets
6 “OHMYGODS”
5 cute selfiessssss
4 calling friends
3 puking fits
2 breakdowns
and a mom who thinks I need therapy.
I cringed as I read through my post. I did, I did indeed compare David’s uh, yeah, to a twisted peppermint stick. I was quite colorful with explaining where he could shove that skinny mint too, if you get my drift. Yeah, it was a bit “Christmas-y” , especially the part where I mentioned I’d love for him to get run over by a reindeer. I briefly buried my face in my hands.
I had to think, and quickly. I got to work on damage control and hid the post. I wrote another status, stating that I was experimenting with a bit of - creative writing, and that it wasn’t meant to be taken seriously.
There was a lot of deleting, and a lot of explaining. Oh, I’ll spare you the details. It was graphic, it was like an advent calendar of word vomit, each door opening up a worse horror than the last. I purged my thoughts about the relationship, my ex, and his jingle bells. Oh, my God.
Merry Christmas.
It eventually died down, save the few memes I’ve seen using quotes from the post. My friends still tease me about it. One saving grace? I never actually posted his name. My friends and family have a heated debate about which ex it’s about.
Save my mother, who is still mortified and threw all of her decorative candy canes away.
An Underwhelming Exposé
Good morning.
It seems the day has finally come. I had imagined it more dramatic; I must admit – thought it would take social media by the balls and shake it to its core. My dear old mind had conjured images of hound dogs and reporters, of a safe ready to burst at its seams – secrets trembling, waiting to be spilled across the darkened nights. I had thought the worst – and, to my dismay, was entirely underwhelmed.
(When your mind tells you to prepare for a doomsday and all you get is an NDA from your recently divorced ex-husband, a lot of things begin to seem underwhelming.)
My nonchalance attitude to this entire charade will cause blood veins to burst – I can already tell. I can see the anger through your jumbled 279 character strongly worded tweet, can see the way you spit words like ‘cheater’ and ‘slut’ from your teeth in a way that would make most mothers flinch. I would flinch as well, had I not heard it all before. Truly, its underwhelming.
Tuesdays to me had also always seems underwhelming. It is only fitting that my horrid ways be revealed only hours before the sun had truly risen – before the darkness could truly hide. I suppose I could blame the empty whiskey bottle for my bravery, or perhaps it was cowardness – my drunk self picking up the phone and sending off photos that I had already put in my favourite’s album. How incredibly underwhelming, that my exposé was done by my own hand and no one else’s.
I had waited 3 years for someone to realise what I had done. 3 years hiding every text and covering ever scent of cologne. Of wearing turtlenecks in 30-degree weather and choosing nondescript black cars on public holidays. 3 years only for it to end when this gun I wielded to protect myself shot out a bullet that went right through my foot. Extremely anticlimactic, I’m almost pouting in boredom.
To my drunk self who decided this was a good idea: thank you, I suppose. I understand that I may deal with these consequences, deal with the blood quickly spilling from my limbs, watch as that silly little follower count drops and drops every minute or so – but I suppose I can finally wear dresses and off the shoulder shirts throughout summer.
This is not the ‘apology’ any of you want, I can see this clearly. You wish for me to repent, to recognise the awful human traits that I could not hide like the rest of you are so desperately trying to.
Next time I drink a bottle of whiskey in its entirety, I’ll make sure to give you one.
In the meantime, I’ll lock up that particular cupboard and stop preparing for the Armageddon. I’ll sign the NDA, and slowly fade back into the social media wall of fuckups and disgraces.
Good night my adoring fans (and to Michael, see you on Friday, my darling.)