Chapter One [Freak Shows are Illegal in all 50 States]

“I love you too!” I yell back into the rushing air as freezing rain fills my lungs, and I roll up the window.

I wait a moment and watch my dad pull out first, then away towards our house, that is, their house.
I think for a minute how unfamiliar it feels to be back in this town, then pull out in the opposite direction.

Regretting my absentminded pack of a mere three cds, I toss an overly used mix into the backseat. Realizing that it is quite possible to feel sick of Otis Redding, as "tenderness" leaks out my ears, and I violently search for a country-less radio station.

Just two hours in I’m already drained.
Blinking the sleep out of my eyes I try to concentrate on the road ahead, the freezing rain and the four hours I have still to go.

Jerking back to reality, I open my eyes.

I don’t know if it was the pressure of having to use the restroom for the 27th time [how much did I drink today, really] or if it was the fact that I was falling asleep at the wheel on a 70 mile per hour expressway. Whatever it was I was awake and in desperate need of a stimulant if I was going to make it back alive. I groggily take the next exit and glide sleeplike into the nearest gas station.

Smacking myself awake I put 20 dollars in the tank and choose the pay inside option.

Oh my god.

It’s nearly midnight and I’m overly tired, fighting back a gapping expression of awe as I drink in the full effect of what stands before me.

It, or rather She, yes she I’m quite certain of it, is leaning against the counter looking hungry and irritable. Her hair is long, thick and burly, kinked into so many jags and turns, trying hard to form curls but instead shaping harsh knots that frame her unhappy shape. She looks up at me lazily, not with a smile, but a small purse of her lips that can only be defined as a wince, showcasing her large dark mustache.

I stand there, for what was probably much to long, in disbelief of the modern day bearded lady. Startled in the realization of its eyes upon me, I spoke much too loud, and much too cheerful “HI!” I half shout, “How are you?” She doesn’t reply, but looks as though she’s contemplating me, sizing me up. I keep smiling, for lack of anything else to do, and let my eyes drift away awkwardly. Pausing momentarily at her arms grossly covered in dark fur, I turn away, sorry that what I’m looking for is so close to the unfriendly caretaker. I search the countertops and nearby surroundings careful not to exchange eye contact, and finally find the array of caffeine pills and products along the back wall. I can feel its eyes bearing down on me as I try to look overly interested in my multiple choices in drugs. I glance sideways at it, and it stares straight back at me. Angry and surprised by my moment of weakness, I say loudly “So which are the best, have you heard?” motioning to the uppers and trying to seem conversational. Raising her eyebrows, she throws a more then arrogant laugh over her shoulder, a laugh hardly comical. “I don’t know,” she sneers “I don’t take them.”

Its 12:00 in the morning and I’m being judged by the hairiest woman in existence.

“I’ll take the middle one” I say, a little less heartedly, pay for my gas, and trudge to my car mildly irritated.

This is going to be a long night.

[well, you've got your diamonds]

I’ve never been in a fight before.

At three in the morning I slam on my breaks.

“You mother fucker,” I swear under my breath and throw it in park.

Getting out of my car I see them stagger a little faster, stumble a little straighter, try to get the fuck away from whatever or whoever is getting out of their car.
It must have been a relief to see me standing there, because they started to lag

“Hey BRO!” I say as I round the front of my car.

“I love you!” he yells back in a drunken slur and keeps walking.

Nice, I think and lean down to get a closer look.
“Thanks for trying to fucking kill me!”

Picking up the blinking road cone that was recently hurled in front of my car at 40 miles per hour, I throw it as hard as I can.

Considering my severe lack of upper body strength, it went pretty far.
As far as I needed it to anyhow.

Screaming as the cone collides with the backs of his legs he takes off running, his two chotch bag companions not far behind.

Satisfied with myself, I immediately turn back to my car when some asshole lays on his horn.

I stop dead, are you kidding me?

“FUCK YOU!” I shout making two of my best hand gestures, and wait for the repercussions.

I’ve never been in a fight before.
Yet here I am, standing in the middle of the street challenging an eight car back up to get out of their cars and make something of it.
I must have looked mental because no one so much as rolled down the window.

I walked back to my car looking tougher then I know I am, and slammed the door.
At 3:30 am, I make it home.

Fucking bros.

[Sell Your Soul]

Wake up.
Where am I?

Lying on the floor in a furniture-less room with three boys all in their respected corners, is a nice trade for dying in a pool of my own sick.

Shift over.
Where am I?
Pushing myself up with both arms, I feel last night roll over me..

Cocktails, pictures, dancing, cocktails, mingling, cocktails, trying to get on the roof, cocktails, laying in the yard, cocktails, cocktails, cocktails.

Last night feels heavy and nauseous. Last night is this morning. I feel heavy and nauseous. Don’t get sick self, you have to go to work soon. Temporarily transferred to another store back home, it’s my first day and I should probably look presentable. Thinking thick and slow, I struggle to regain my vision. What time is it? I manhandle my cell phone out of my purse and attempt to focus in on the time. 9:43am.

Panic.

So let me put this in perspective for you with a small list of facts that have just slapped me in the face at 9:43am.

I am laying on a strange floor half, if not mostly still drunk from the night before.
I am 30 minutes away from my house.
I have to go home, change out of much too short dress, and much too high heels.
Work is 40 minutes away from my house.
It is 9:43am.
At 10:00am I begin my first day of work.

Panic.

I rustle up the things I have lying around me that I’m vaguely sure may belong to me, and rush out of the room, down the stairs (did I get sick here?) around the corner, through the kitchen, out the door, wait. Where’s _____? Reverse through the door, through the kitchen, around the corner, through the known rooms I can find, up the stairs, in and out of the bedrooms and bathrooms I couldn’t find. Regretfully, I leave _____ behind.

Check the time, 9:50am. I’m fucked.

The walk to my car, didn’t happen as far as I know. The particulars of this particular morning fade in and out as the day progresses, and I’m fucked. Arriving at my parents house 30 minutes later, I walk in the door looking something like I’d assume a strung out hooker to look. My mom greets me at the door, with a much to cynical “GOODMORNING!” her smug grin reminds me that she can attend last nights party with one look at me. Cocktails, cocktails, cocktails. “I might die.” I say, and trudge down the stairs. I can hear her faint laughter through the drywall. I strip off the clothes that are now made of smoke and liquor, and start the shower. It is here a plan is conceived.

Plan:
Get out of shower, brush teeth, never drink again.
Set alarm for 12:00pm.
Go back to sleep for two hours.
Wake up and make it to work by 1:30pm
Put on the dimmest look and pretend to have thought you worked the closing shift.
This is a terrible plan, but it’s the best I’ve got.

Sleep.

I wake up and follow the plan step by step. My mom even makes me a pity breakfast-lunch. I also endure much mocking from both parents. Both of which agree with the strung out hooker comparison. Thanks mom and dad.

I drive to work mildly calm for someone who’s about to get fired from a store they don’t technically work at. 40 minutes later, I park and swagger in with the “right on time” look on my face. Crossing the threshold, I run directly face to face with my manager, and nearly lose my cool. Putting on my freshest smile, I regain control. There’s a brief pause where I’m dangerously unsure how the next 60 seconds are about to unfold. Then she speaks. She is my favorite of the managers I’ve met. She talks loud and obnoxious, to the point that it is completely un-obnoxious. She surrounds the whole room when she laughs and yells things unnecessarily. She could knock over a small child with her wind pipes if I had her going good enough, I’m almost sure of it. She is my favorite.

I hold my breath for the backlash, the disappointment, the awkward conversation in the meeting room. I can almost feel the hard wood chair pressing against my lower back as they rip up my W2s and emergency contact information. I make a mental list of things to retrieve before I’m evicted from my apartment, and a list of apologies to my roommate. Wondering who would get the shampoos and conditioners, and would we split the food by amount or by who enjoys the product more, and suddenly I can’t remember who bought milk last. This is a broken home Ill yell, and take all the frozen stirfry. Then she speaks.

“Oh, just so you know, the breakdown is a little messed up because I couldn’t remember what time I told you to come in today, so just follow someone else’s breaks.”

I’m sweating through my shirt, and I am the smartest woman in the world.