Joselyn Hughes

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Friday, April 16, 2010

a girl can dream…

I awake to the sound of cursing as you slam our front door and head towards your rusted ‘87 Blazer. You must have decided to work today.
I sit up and am immediately reminded of the night before. My head hurts so much I’m don’t know if it’s from the Jack Daniels or the screaming match we had over who’s turn it was to sit on the heated massage chair pad placed on our 17 year old La-z-boy. I don’t know much in general.

I remember that I’m supposed to be angry at you. I go into the bathroom. I heat up my curling iron, light a cigarette, and curl my bangs up into sweet nest of Aqua Net and bad taste. Our overweight cat, Chubbs, jumps onto his favorite spot on the back of the toilet and I begin to cry and ask him for advice. We haven’t changed his litterbox in months. The smell of our one bedroom apartment explains that to those who haven’t yet learned that lesson and unknowingly come over. I throw on my favorite Iron Maiden tee shirt, Wranglers and cakey mascara.

I watch three hours of Judge Judy.

I drive to the local Culver’s, where my best friend Darcy is the manager. She lets me come hang out with her in her management office in the back. We pass a crummy joint made from her skanky pot while she feeds me fried cheese curds and tells me I can do so much better. Her son does drive thru, and if I really want I can apply to do the graveyard shift and sleep on her couch ‘til I get it together. I know. I remind her of the last time we worked together. She points to a scar and although laughing because she’s high; makes it evident it may be time to go.

As I drive, I decide that I really do love you and I’m not that angry. I love you so much so I go to the Pick-N-Save and pickup some Boone’s Farm and Gorton’s frozen fish sticks. I return home to prepare our special makeup supper. You’re home early; you decided you didn’t like Speedway no more and you ask me who I’ve curled up my bangs to go see while you were hard at work makin’ us money.

I say nobody, but a vicious screaming match ensues despite my claim. I pull out the box of Gorton’s frozen fish sticks to show you what a bastard you are and to throw them at your ass face and soon realize you’re throwing them back at me as one hits me in my bad eye. I have to take a knee to regain my balance.

During that slight pause, our attention turns to the teevee.

We both laugh over a Denny’s commercial and realize at this point we love each other more than ever. We pick up some of the frozen fish sticks- which now are covered in cat hair, cigarette ashes, and litter from the cat box- rinse em off and cook em up while drinking Strawberry Field’s Boones straight from the bottle. Later we’ll make a digusting, sloppy attempt at having sex while we both secretly keep watching “WWF’s Raw” on TV out of the corners of our eyes.

Damn that Stone Cold’s fine.
You complete me.

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