This Is What Happens Next Read Free Page A

tax stuff today. Because today is Saturday which means that tomorrow is Sunday and my week starts on Sunday and I don’t want my new start to start next week, I don’t want my new start to start in the middle of the week, I want my new start to start tomorrow, which is Sunday so I want my stuff today which is Saturday. Oh but he’s having a barbecue today. Oh really? How nice for him. Well I have something to do today too. I’m meeting Susan today. She’s my lawyer. And my friend. I’m meeting my friend and lawyer Susan today. So there. Good for me. But I don’t want to meet Susan today. And I don’t even want to take her phone calls to tell her I don’t want to meet today because all Susan will say is don’t you go to that barbecue. She told me that as my lawyer. And my friend. “Don’t you go to that goddamn barbecue!” A barbecue. How nice for him. Him and all his new himbo friends in their mankinis sipping their Sea Breezes around the pool I paid for. Hey boys enjoy the pool! And don’t forget to put plastic sheets down on the new sofa before the piss party. Okay, that was unnecessary. I’m not trying to say I wasn’t there, okay. I’m not saying I’m perfect and don’t have my flaws. But try living with his stridency. And his opinions. And his repetition. Oh my God. The same stories over and over and over again. Da da da da da da da da da da da Norway da da da da da da da da hot tub da da da da da da da leather chaps. And no sense of occasion. No sense of appropriateness. It doesn’t matter who’s in the room. These are not the people for this story. The sex party story is not for these people. Save the sex party story for the sex party people. The sex party story is not for my mother. My mother doesn’t get it the sex party story. I don’t get the sex party story. Well that’s not entirely true but… I just want my stuff. Oh and “Ask me how was my day, ask me how was my day, why don’t you ever ask me how was my day?” Oh I don’t know, maybe because I’m a narcissist and I don’t think of it, okay. Or maybe because I don’t need to because you tell me anyway all he does is complain and complain and complain and complain and complain and complain and finally one night I innocently say, innocently I say: “Well why don’t you quit your job.” And so he does and I might as well have gotten a tattoo on my forehead or shot myself in the face because boy oh boy do I really have to eat that for dinner for the rest of my life. “I should never have let you make me quit my job.” I should never have let you make me quit my job? You “
let me
” “
make you
” quit your job? How does that work? What personality type is that, “Victim” or “Controlling”? My head explodes. No it doesn’t. I’m fine. Oh oh oh oh and “The Chest of Drawers.” The Chest of Drawers. We don’t need another chest of drawers we have four chests of drawers. We’ve had this conversation, just because there’s space doesn’t mean there’s room. Nevertheless, one morning I wake up and I walk into the living room—hungover like a bull in a G-string—and I look out the window and what’s sitting on the front step? A chest of drawers. Now I don’t think that chest of drawers was walking down the street and decided it wanted to live with us. I don’t think it’s a stray. I think somebody told somebody to drop off that chest of drawers, and that somebody wasn’t me. And we’ve had this conversation. Just because there’s space doesn’t mean there’s ROOM . Empty space is doing something. It’s being empty. That’s not me being controlling that’s me having an aesthetic. And I don’t want to have this conversation again so I get in the car and I start driving to Delaware, but I can’t