Like someone forgot to tell them you’re supposed to lay down when you’re dead.
Dick toucher.
Care to hazard a guess what the second stage is?
Oh yeah-it’s anger.
What have you done for me lately-I’m better off without you; I never liked you anyway-anger.
Ear-fucker. No, that’s lame. Eater-of-ass.
Better.
The alphabetical naughty name-calling? It’s a game Delores and I made up in college. To vent our frustration against the out-of-touch, stick-up-the-ass professors who were giving us a hard time.
Feel free to jump in anytime. It’s cathartic.
And for some reason, a lot easier when you’re a high college student.
Fuckface.
Anyway-what was I saying? That’s right-anger.
Gooch.
Fury is good. Fire is fuel. Steam is power. And rage keeps you standing, when all you really want to do is curl up in a ball on the floor like a frightened armadillo.
Herniated Intestine.
Here’s a fact for you: Married men live seven to ten years longer than bachelors. Married women, on the other hand, die about eight years earlier than their single counterparts.
Are you shocked? Me neither.
Infected dick cheese.
Because men are parasites. The life-sucking variety from the rainforest that burrow up your genitalia, then lay eggs in your kidneys.
And Drew Evans is their leader.
Jerk-off.
The flight attendant asks me if I would like a complimentary beverage.
I’m on the plane. Did I not mention that?
I don’t take the drink; I’m trying to avoid the airplane bathroom. Too many memories there. Fun, sweet memories.
Kooch.
See-Drew doesn’t like to fly. He never came out and said it, never let it stop him, but I could tell.
Flying requires you to hand someone else the reins-to let go of the illusion of control. And we all know Drew has enough control issues to fill the Grand Canyon.
Right before takeoff, he’d get moody. Tense. And then, after the seat belt sign went off, he’d suggest a joint trip to the lavatory. To relieve some of that tension.
I could never say no.
The Mile High Club? I’m a gold member now.
Leaky discharge.
After the cart moves past me, I recline my seat back and close my eyes. And I think about what every scorned woman dreams of.
Payback.
Suffering.
Punishment.
Molester of Llamas.
Not that I’m going to go all Lorena Bobbitt on him. A woman’s most powerful weapon is guilt-much more lethal than a machete. So my revenge scenarios revolve around . . . death.
My death.
Sometimes it’s cancer; sometimes it’s childbirth. But in every one, Drew is banging on my deathbed door, begging to come in, to tell me how assholishly wrong he was.
How sorry he is.
But he’s always too late. I’m already gone. And that knowledge destroys him-leaves him wrecked. Ruined.
The guilt eats at him slowly, like a tooth in a glass of Coca-Cola.
Nutsack puller.
And he spends the rest of his life alone wearing black, like an eighty-year-old Italian grandma.
Orca fingerer.
I smile.
It’s such a nice thought.
Pillow-biting pansy.
That’s a double-word score.
Delores would be so proud.
Queef.
Oh, yeah-I went there.
Rim job.
You know, I think it’s better this way. No bullshit. If I look at the situation objectively, I’m better off this way.
Drew did me a favor.
Smegma eater.
Because even though he likes to play dress-up in Daddy’s big-boy suits? Emotionally, he’s an adolescent. A child.
Testicle licker.
The kind no one else likes to play with. Because when a game’s not going his way? He smashes the board to pieces.
Urinary tract infection.
And who needs that?
Not me. No, sir. I deserve more.
Vagina.
I’m going to get through this. I’m Kate Fucking Brooks.
I will succeed.
I will survive.
I will persevere.
Whoreboy.
Even if it’s just to spite him. Stubborn is my middle name.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.