Another One Bites the Dust

I was feeling so good last night. I had a great coffee reunion date, filled up my gas tank, came home to an empty house (when one's brother is home all the time, this is a treat), and vowed not to junk-food out. Why would I? I was feeling so good.


Then I get the news.

Another one bites the dust. Even as I approach 30, I'm still not used to engagement announcements. I still hate it. Before I could stop my hand, it was opening up a beer. I sunk into the couch, and let Murder She Wrote end while I heated up leftover soup.

Then I had another beer, wondering where my mother hid the scotch. Most likely she stole it for the pleasure of watching me torture myself looking for booze like a fucking hound on a coke addiction. Most most likely, my grandfather drank it last time the fam was over.

So I do the only thing a person can do when they're in the depths of despair. I share it, and text my best friend who is probably my best friend because we share news like this and then both hate the person who dared to make us feel this way. Then we drink. And talk behind her back. Or big butt. Whatever. Then we drink more.



I picture myself being buried with my maiden name hugging an embroidered pillow (because I fucking love embroidering) that says "I celebrate myself". I'd have to leave my belongings to my brother's 5 kids, except they don't know who I am because there's never been a reason to invite me over when every person in the world is married and I live by myself with my pillows and zero cats because I'm a loser with allergies.



Oh, and I learned that the entire bowl of 'soup' that I ate was actually homemade pasta sauce.