It was happening again, the tingles and the shooting pain. The headaches wouldn’t be far behind. Fuck my life. If I could kill you James, and get away with it, I’d chop you up in little pieces and feed you to your dogs. I hate you. Most people, after a period of mourning, are able to move on and forget about their ex. They live a happy lives as someone else’s problem. But thanks to you James, you and your adventurous dick, I’ll remember you forever. The blisters will invade my underwear right as the weather turns. The zombie camel toe will rise once again, a reminder of how much my life sucks.
Everyone at work already knows. I hear the whispers that fly around the building, but I somehow manage to pretend I don’t know that everyone I talk to doesn’t already know. Maybe it’s just me and my overly active mind. LOL. Overly active, yeah right. They call me Dumpy around the office, well not to my face anyway. Another one of those things I pretend I don’t know. My brain is constantly over thinking everything and I feel like everyone is always talking about me—even though they’re probably not, and I know that, but my mind hasn’t fully grasped the concept yet. It kind of does its own thing
I’m shaped like a pear, a huge ugly misshapen piece of fruit. And I have no butt. None-at-all. It looks like someone took a snow shovel and smacked my ass so hard, all the fat shifted to my front, and stayed. My FUPA, as it has been called—or Front Butt, is another one of my nicknames I don’t know about. Squeeze out three pups and see what you end up looking like. Except for my pig nose and my flaring nostrils, I used to be quite attractive. James thought so anyway, before I turned to this—I guess. Oh yeah, Pig Nose, that’s another one.
“Excuse me ma’am, this parking is for customers only,” some dickwad says standing a few feet from my driver’s window.
I sleep in my car and have been parking under a big oak tree every night, hoping that a big branch will fall and crush my car, with me in it. I am suicidal, but I’m too scared I might spend an eternity in hell, if God is real—I’m not too sure anymore—but I wasn’t ready to find out. I’m too much of a chicken.
Except this time, the dickwad is a cop. The fine upstanding millennials that run this Burger King are tired of seeing me in their drive-thru every day and in their back parking lot every night. One of the little managers tried to talk to me about it earlier today, but I snapped.
“Look, you see all these burger wrappers and these loose fries all over my dirty car? I’m a paying customer faggot!”
He stuttered a bit. Poor kid, he just caught me on the wrong day. None of this was his fault.
“Look. . .Paul is it? I’ll make you a deal. You stick that cute little mouth of yours on my herpes infested vagina and go to town on that thing, I mean really go to town on it like you have a bib on and everything, and then, and only then will I leave your fucking parking lot!”
Paul jumped back and took off.
“Besides, I really like your tree!” I yelled at him. Now some cute little number in a crew cut and a badge is trying to scoot me off from this perfectly beautiful chance at death.
“Ma’am there’s a storm coming through tonight with some high winds, you don’t want to be here under this tree when it gets here.”
That’s exactly why I’m here you dickwad. It’s sweet how respectful and courteous he is to me when it’s obvious that I haven’t bathed in days and everything I own is in this car with me. And the three days worth of double cheeseburgers wrappers, each one crumbled into a neat little ball—all thirty-seven of them. The manager from the Del Taco a few nights ago was a real jerk. He gave me some new nicknames that night, I’m sure of it, I just didn’t understand them all.
Officer Ramirez I think his badge says, he must be new, he’s too nice. I tell officer Ramirez me and my front butt will go elsewhere. It’s not like he didn’t notice it sitting there in my lap, hell, it is my lap. There’s the gut, the FUPA and then like halve a set of thighs before you get to knee. I’m disgusting, I know. I shove half of a cold double bacon cheeseburger into my mouth. After three days of car camping, I finally leave Burger King, me and zombie lips.
After James left, one evening a bunch of us from the office went out drinking. It was before Jamie was born that I had fun like that. I got wasted and took some young thing with a nice butt home. I don’t even remember what he looked like. My mother-in-law brought the kids over in the morning after I didn’t answer her multiple phone calls. The door was wide open and they found my unflattering butt naked ass sprawled out on the living-room floor. There were drugs on the coffee table and some strange man laying naked next to me with a raging boner and crap all over his dick. Yep, you guessed it. I got herpes of the butthole too. I don’t even remember that part of the night and it hurt so bad in the morning. Picture my super-sized jelly rolls jiggling at you slowly and bowlegged. This is what my kids and James’s mom saw. My first night out in a gazillion years, I get drunk and decide to screw some scum bag on the rug my kids play on—and I get herpes. Fuck me. James found out about the whole thing, of course. He and his mom spun some outlandish story in court and got sole custody of our three children. I have no visitation rights, at all. He got the house too. It wasn’t long before he moved in some big breasted blond named Shiela, from the office. They met last year at the Christmas party. Gee, I wonder how everyone at work found out about my drunken sexcapade?
I got my car, and whatever I could fit in it and now all I have is my job, which blows. They all hate me there. It’s team Shiela Cunt-face all the way in the office. I have nothing. I have no one, no one to love me, to hold me. Not a soul to share my life with. And no one will ever want me again, not with my misshapen flabby body and the pussy of death. I found out this morning that the nice butt from the shenanigans on the living-room floor was HIV positive.
I haven’t told anyone yet, because there’s no one to tell. James didn’t infect me, but he is responsible. This is his fault and I will never be able to forget it. It will always come back around to remind me. How can I live a happy life like this—while I still have it?
Vacation time is almost over and soon I’ll be expected to return to work. There’s no way in hell I’m going back like this. But instead of looking for a new home, I’ve been trying to figure out a way to get killed. Suicide by cop is out of the question. It’s a loophole with the whole religion thing, but I’m not a black male, so the cops won’t shoot first, but they’ll take my ass down and throw the book at me. Then some fat dyke named Barbara will make me her bitch. Yep, that would be my luck, unless I had the nerve to shoot at a cop (which I don’t), then they would shoot me a million times or so. They’d spin some story of a mother mad on drugs who had gone crazy and was taking others out with her. It would make all the headlines, finally someone paying attention to me, that would be just perfect. I’d screw my kids up even more than seeing my ugly ass next to the Leaning Tower of Feces would ever do. I’d cost them years of therapy and medication. Besides, I wouldn’t even know where to go looking for a gun.
“How does one accidentally get themselves killed?”
The question doesn’t make sense. Dumpy—the unluckiest woman in the world, that’s me alright. I just wanted to be a mom, to raise my children. To love my husband and for him to love me back. But I’m not allowed that life. I must’ve done something to piss off God, to have been punished like this—or maybe God doesn’t exist. That’s a scary thought. My vision gets blurry and my grip tightens on the steering wheel. My molars, or what was left of them, are grinding as I curse God under my breath. My headlights pour out onto the crappy roads, but I’m not paying attention. I just kept thinking of James coming inside that fucking cunt—in my bed! It just wasn’t fair. I just want that cheating dickhead to die!
I look up to see the red light and jerk the wheel to avoid the car stopped in front of me. My car jumps the curb and drives right through a restaurant front. Glass shatters and clings to my greasy hair and the crumbled balls of burger wrappers bounce around the car and so does all my fat. I tear through all the tables, knock out half the counter and part of the kitchen before my car takes out the back restaurant wall. I can feel warm blood trickle down my forehead and onto my cheek. The airbags don’t inflate and a tree on the other side of a wooden fence, on a decline reaching out over a fifty foot drop down to the freeway catches me. The driver side is tilted showcasing the speeding traffic below through the doors window. The tree saved my life.
I just can’t catch a break. Life doesn’t even feel real anymore. That’s it. All this isn’t real. This car stuck in this tree isn’t really hanging over the freeway. I didn’t possibly murder a few people in that restaurant back there. There’s blood in my mouth and I look down at my front butt—no, this is real. The pain stabs me in the gut again. I hate you James. I start to pray for my car to fall and land upside down in front of a semi. But it won’t happen. God won’t give me an easy out. No, I’m going to suffer one way or another.
No. I’m going to jump. I’m gonna jump out of my car, or “fall” down onto the freeway. If I time it right, I can break my hip or maybe my back. And then someone will have to take care of me for once—maybe forever. I’ll just sit in my wheelchair and drink, smoke drugs or whatever living month to month until I die. And then I’ll come back and haunt James and Shiela for the rest of their miserable lives. Yes, I like that idea. I could feel something like the blood running down my face. Feel the pain I feel on the inside, on the outside. To feel reality, to feel life. I have forgotten what that feels like. I know it sounds crazy, but it makes sense to me, it feels right. It’s better than sitting numb (but not numb in my crotch) stuffing my face full of burgers.
I manage to open my broken door, it gives and falls landing on top of some Kia sedan. The driver freaks and jerks to the left, it spins out of control before it flips and tumbles. I can’t help but think how lucky that person is right now and how I would give anything to trade places with them. All the trucks and cars swerve left and right crashing into each other trying to dodge the four door. My seatbelt is the only thing holding me in my car as I notice a RV coming. I grab the buckle and get into position.
So, since I don’t intend to die, just to severely injure myself, that would be a forgivable sin— if I’m lucky enough, I’ll get run over and killed and win the grand prize. The buckle pops loose and I slip falling out of my seat. I flop out unprepared and land on top of the RV. My butt lands on the skylight of the RV, but of course I doesn’t fit. But that glass or plastic or whatever it is, it breaks and a piece of it stabs me in the back of my pale white calve, they never see the light of day. The piece penetrates my flesh and pierces out the front side. It feels real. I feel real pain. I can feel reality once again—but I’m not dead. I’m not even paralyzed. I can barely move due to the large shard stuck in my leg and I cry in a puddle of my own blood. No one comes to help me. Someone says the family in the Kia are all mangled up and dead. Just my luck. I’ll be visiting Barbara after all.
This is all your fault James.