[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.