Page 57 of You've Got Hate Mail
That goes hand in hand with the part where every time he’s nice to me, I get a bigger and bigger crush on him, which means I need to avoid him entirely so that I’m not the guest here who makes him uncomfortable if he realizes I have a crush on him.
And the part where my parents have called twice and my sisters once each to complain about how my viral moment is still causing them personal and professional angst.
And the part where I’m struggling to find a new job.
And the part where none of my friends back home are able to give me a place to land temporarily and the part where myroommate informed me that I’m definitely out and she’s packing my stuff into boxes she’ll send me the bill for a storage unit.
Talk about wanting to get rid of someone.
But on the parts about my old life, I kinda don’t care.
Being berated and made to feel like a failure by the people who are supposed to love me more than anyone else?
No, thank you.
Working on camera again?
Also no, thank you.
I should probably come up with a pen name and start applying as a copywriter.
And start looking harder for jobs in places away from my family, where I can start fresh.
Maybe even legally change my name so that no one knows it’s me.
Claim theCheeky Beaverwas my doppelgänger.
But for now, my life is pretty fine.
Mabel and Ginny and Pip and Olivia and Samantha, the five permanent residents at what I’ve begun calling the Five Minutes of Shame Recovery Center, have been extraordinarily welcoming.
They feed me. Mabel’s done my laundry twice now in addition to showing me a storage room full of clothes, underwear, toiletries, and basically anything a woman could need to survive if she arrived with nothing but the clothes on her back.
When I get a new job, I’m donating to the storeroom every paycheck.
Being here has been lifesaving.
I want to do whatever I can to pay back the kindness that my new friends have shown me.
Ginny checks on me if I’m not over at the main house for breakfast by midmorning now that she’s off her crutches, andon the three days that I’ve missed breakfast, Olivia has insisted I join her for a nibble over at the event space on the property where she and Samantha bake breads and pastries ordered by local restaurants. Mabel gave me free rein to dig around in the gardens, but also told me to just sit and soak in the scenery if that gives me more peace right now.
Lavender comes to see me sometimes in the apartment when she sneaks away from Heath, and we play dragon slayer practically every day that she’s in the main house.
Pip regularly makes me laugh, even if it was startling at first to see her in not much more than her birthday suit. She puts on a nightgown every day at five p.m. sharp, and the neighbor, Walter, has called on her twice when I’ve been in the main house. I can’t tell if she’s hard of hearing or if she’s faking it, and I actually love her for that.
I want to be her when I’m older.
Probably not the mostly naked part—I have scars over nudity right now, and it takes a lot to work up to showering still, which I’m realizing is probably also partially lingering childhood scars around my parents’ attitudes toward sex and skin—but I wouldn’t mind owning Pip’sdon’t give a fuck, keep having fun in lifeattitude.
The two other newer residents, Elizabeth and Dori, and I have bonded over our recent misadventures on the internet, drinking wine and crying and raging and laughing.
Elizabeth went viral after someone posted a video of her drunk and crashing a drag show, which wasn’t the full story, of course. She’d been at her daughter’s wedding when her husband got caught with one of the bridesmaids, and that’s what prompted her to get drunk and crash the drag show next door, where she called him every name under the sun.
And rightfully so, if you ask me.
Dori went viral for a vulnerable video she made crying about breaking up with her boyfriend, whom the internet has decided is as close to a real-life superhero as a mortal being can get, despite that not being the full story either.
All three of us agree that we’re never going on social media again. Or letting ourselves knowingly be recorded.
