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*Language warning: F-bombs dropped in this story.*

First short story assignment:

From Lisa to Gina: “I have your opening sentence. It’s first person”:

I always wanted to go to Tasmania.


I always wanted to go to Tasmania.


I’m choking and I can’t even see my life flash before my eyes. I have to see my non-life. The things I fucked up.

Thanks, brain.

Of course there’s no one here to watch me die — or help, if they even wanted to. Not even a cat.

God, that shelter. What was that, almost two years ago? The calico with the sad eyes. … Just couldn’t do it.

Divorced woman, over 40, living with a cat? Not ready for that. And I have no room for a dog in this shit-hole apartment. Pretended to get a phone call and ducked out before the staff could glare at me. Coward. Bet they knew.

Now I’m here.

No super cat to dial 911 like you hear about. Not that I would’ve ended up with one of them. I’d get the incontinent one or the one who likes everyone but me. We could’ve been Jerry and Newman.

Jesus, how long does it take to die? I should’ve worn better pajamas. Jumping up and down like an idiot, like that’ll help.

“Never never never shake a baby!” Love that bumper sticker. So fucking soccer mom. Thank God I never got a minivan.

If I survive this I’m going to have a helluva bruise on my stomach.

If Sean were here he’d be dry humping me from behind to get it out. Not too close, though. No copping a feel. Like I’m contaminated. Like I’m his fucking mother now and it’s all just soooo embarrassing to even know me.

I should give those chips to the squirrels in Haven Park. I don’t think I’m going to want them anymore.

Like that’s an option.

Dammit, it wasn’t even that funny a line! “I’ll be home having lots of sex.”

Death by “Bachelorette”? Jesus.

Who’ll write my obit? Who knows what year I did what?

Doubt they’ll even spell check.

Who’ll get the call? Mom’s not listed anymore after the magazine thing. I don’t think I have her new number in my cell.

Do I even have an emergen— Oh fuck, it’s still Sean.

That’s what I need. Sean and Smug Bitch rescuing me in my wrinkled pajamas at quarter to 11 during “The Bachelorette.”

Don’t know what she’s so smug about. ‘Cause he’s such a prize? Believe me.

It’s almost better if I do die at this point. Bruised and exhausted, I’ll be useless at the office tomorrow — but God save me if I try to call in.

Tanya will demand a full report and grill me like fucking Columbo.

As if she doesn’t leave at 11:45 for an hour and a half every day so she can have lunch with her son.

Aww … Yeah. So cute. Except she puts 12-1 on her time card like everybody else.

But if I complain to Roy and Brian weeeeelllll, I’m the evil childless woman ratting on the poor loving mother. Never mind that she’s a liar setting a bad example for her kid.

Nazi bitch. Micromanaging everyone else’s time. Why are they always the ones who get promoted?

Oh God I think it’s moving. Oh thank God. It’s moving.

Where’s that wooden spoon? Jam it out.

Jesus, if anyone looks in the window they’ll call 911 just thinking I’m a suicide.

Fuck Tanya.

I’m definitely calling in. She can bitch to Roy if she wants. I’ll bring her a bag of chips on Thursday.

They weren’t even that great. But if you have one, you have two…

I’m every damn cliché. At least it wasn’t Haagen Dazs. Can you choke on ice cream?

Bet Smug Bitch doesn’t let him near chips and ice cream. Probably has him on some vege-fru-fru macrobiotic shit — ass shavings and celery.


Holy Christ!

Cough myself to death just trying to stay alive.

Where’s the Poland Spring? Fuck it — tap.

God that feels good. Thank God …

Oh that feels good.

Thank God.

Thank God.

That’s it. No more Wal-Mart T-shirts and striped pajama pants. If I’m gonna die, I’ll do it in a nightie or whatever Samantha would wear on “Sex and the City.” Probably nothing. Not sure I’m ready for that.


Even Death is taking a pass. It’s not me, it’s you, right? Hey, I’ll take it.

Maybe I should get a cat. Why not. The calico with the sad eyes will be gone by now, but … someone else will be there. A little tortoiseshell. Little sweet face.

Fuck, the show’s over.

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