With all sincerity and honesty, I don't know why I'm here. Our friend group, on impenetrable, was now a congregation of Instagram acquaintances —who, at this moment, were more performative friends. We went from wine nights and chain text to a pack of actresses pretending to be something that had passed. Julie Marks, my once-great who introduced me to my first husband and my second husband, seemed like a stranger who had morphed into a platinum-blonde Karen complete with the demeaning tone of voice, "Will all have glasses of water with lemon, and, like, are these the only wines you have?" She asks the server with a gaze of condemnation—not taking her eyes off her prey. After being told there was only one wine list, she made a snide comment to our server as if he had the power to change the wine list. "Well, you should have more options available." Looking at her like the asshole she was being, our server sharply turns his back to Julie and walks away. "There goes his tip she snips, not realizing our checks will come with a 20% gratuity. The only defence for her behaviour is that last year, her husband, Josh, had begun an affair with Mary Agnes. 19-year-old, great rack, and their babysitter. In between posting newsreels from a deranged, racist criminal and now the GOP front runner for a presidential candidate who she loves, and unfounded home remedies cures. She keeps this fact quiet; I learned about this after speaking to someone from between a series of TiK-Tok, GIFs, and memes. However, Julie Marks wasn't the only one. Hillary Rice had a fascinating life, from what I could guess.
Once, my California-sober friend in this group, believe me, you need a level-headed person in a pack of Queen Bees who took to binge drinking before she left her husband for Everette, the Rasitta Creek Golf Resort Clubhouse Manager. Over the years, her husband George had become a chubby grouch who was not in excellent health. She was never one to roll with punches. A myriad of punches had been thrown her way: bad reviews for her CNA business, a sick husband who she had grown to hate, and a troubled son—who overly enjoyed playing with guns alone in his bedroom while drowning himself in conspiracy theories on the dark web, finally, had a well deserved mental breakdown. Of course, her divorce decree was avaiable on the internet. My suspicion was aroused after her abrupt posting of anything related to her husband. She stopped posting those enviable vacation pictures at exotic locations, no food photo dumps from five-star restaurants, and the sudden influx of pictures of her new man, who none of us had ever met.
My life, where do I start? I quit my job at Fern and Loy Graphic Design. My finances are a disaster; I’m barely affording this lunch, I abuse my Adderall and don't sleep, and I’m losing my hair. “Wow, you’re so bold,” I hear all the time. It’s so condescending, and all I want is to not shave my head anymore. Why not a wig? A good lace front is $1000.00, so shaved bald and door knocker earrings it is. I didn't race to share my issues either, over the phone or otherwise, so why should Julie and Hillary?
I guess we all lose track of each other at some point. We forget to text for that one birthday and say will catch them next year, but then next year comes, and then we forget again. It’s a trip, sitting amongst women I used to be so close to, but far away from now. I guess that's what happens when we live our lives out on social media.
A letter arrived this morning, and I already don't want to open the shit. At 6 am, the doorbell rang, which sounded like an exploding bell jar. The noise awakened me from a luxurious sex dream that found me at a tarted-up swinger penthouse on the Upper East Side in NYC. My toes were being sucked by a dreamy chocolate man, complete with a full beard, hulking-prison muscles, and tattoos. As I was about to climax, the sound of planes falling from the sky jolted me awake.
Frantic and glistening with a thin sheet of sweat, I high-tailed to my front door. As the door swung open, Marcleese, an Ogar with a lazy eye and an unreasonable amount of body hair, was standing in my doorway with his enormous mouth agape. He's an aqatiuneces from my nights of partying in the underworld, and only one entity could have sent him here. With his big, clunky arms outstretched, he presents a red envelope with crimson embossed letters that said, for Shay.
Who’s this from, or do I even need to guess? I asked with a hint of bitchy cunt in my voice. There’s nothing more infuriating than NOT getting off in a sex dream, and I wanted to pick up where I left off.
Victor, he said.
Do you mean Hades? Of course, that dramatic bitch would send an invite during an erotic dream. About 200 years ago, we had a tumultuous affair that ended badly, but what should I expect from a God? Lousy. Mother fuckers, the lot of them.
Then the smell of garbage water hit my nose. And before I could bitch about the stench, Marcleese disappeared in a cloud of scented vapour. Fucken Dick, I shout, slamming the door.
What is this about the invite? I think to myself, kind of laughing and slightly terrified. Not bothering to find my envelope opener, I slide my raspberry blue fingernail across the sealed letter.
Upon opening the letter, lilac petals and butterflies erupt from the envelope. What in the HELL, I murmur. With a deep sigh, I prepare myself for the bullshit that I’m about to read.
Dear Shay,
I hope this letter finds you well. It’s been many years since I have seen you and I love to catch up. We just got a Sardees and Apples Bees in the third rung of Hell, and let me tell you, I live for the quesadilla burger. Last weekend, I was a Grotto 666, and they added this to die for Squid the Dragon livers, and I thought of you and all our food adventures. None of my concubines or prisoners enjoy fine food, and I often dine alone. Then this thought: Shay would love this, but I would not be truthful because that was not my first time thinking that thought. I would love a dinner date. I know things ended badly— I really fucked up. I know we had hook-up rules, and I broke them over and over again. Time has changed me, and I learned that the best advisors did not surround me. If you like, they opened a Unicorn BBQ in Purgatory 5, and I would love it if you could come—no pressure, of course, but just a little. Please let me know soon because the host is a grade-a-prick from Des Moines, Iowa.
With Love Victor
