Not Another Fairytale

Jeez, get me out of here. We haven’t been here very long and I already want to go home. I’ve been in what I like to call a “Jesus Slump” lately. I can’t connect with any of the messages. I want to run away every time I hear them start the music. It just doesn’t hold my interest anymore.

I sink down in my seat and start to daydream.

When we finally got home, I checked my phone (my mom doesn’t allow me to take it to church because it “disconnects me from the messages and from God”), and noticed I had a message from my friend, Candace.

“hey grl! goin to a club ltr. see u there?”

Candace has been trying really hard to get me to go to a club with her. A gay club. She says when I’m with her, she gets more numbers than when she’s with her other gay friends. In her words, I can “get the bitches excited.” Whatever that means.

I don’t see why I shouldn’t go. It could be fun.

“Hey, Candace! I’d love to go! What time?”

I fall down on my bed and start to think about tonight. Though I prefer the male species, there’s nothing wrong with a straight girl going to a gay club. Especially in support of my friend.

So I keep pushing the thought out of my head that I’m actually kind of excited to go, and try to keep telling myself it’s all for Candace. Right?

I have become a champion hitchhiker. As many times as I’ve found myself with no car and no idea where I am, I’m well versed in all the ways to get someone to give me a ride.

I don’t have my thumb up for more than 5 minutes before a white truck pulls over just ahead of me. I walk up to the passenger side and see a rather large man leering at me. Red flag.

“Hey, baby. What’s a cute little thing like you doing out here?” Red flag. But I need a ride. I decide to feel this guy out a little more.

“Oh, ya know, had a hell of a night last night and I’m just trying to find my way home now.” I put on my best smile and lean into the truck a bit.

“I might be able to help you find your way. It’s not very often I get the chance to help pretty girls.” The creep then licks his lips at me. Red flag. I know what this guy wants. Maybe I can just keep him talking. His truck is the only I’ve seen, and I really need to get home.

“Well, here’s your chance. It would be greatly appreciated.”

“Slide on in, baby. I’ll give you what you need.” He then winks at me.

My stomach turns, but I ignore it and climb in to the white truck.

Don’t you hate it that one person, one single person, who used to never mean a damn thing to you, now all of a sudden means the world? Even months after breaking up, you can’t help but still ache for them, for what you had, for how you felt while you were with them.

It’s ridiculous. It’s absolutely ridiculous how much I still care for this girl. I’ve known her for a shorter amount of time than any one of my friends (the ones who have stuck around), yet for some reason I care more deeply about her than any of them.

I shouldn’t. I should’ve walked out a long time ago. After the one millionth time I cried over her, I should have let it go and given up. My life would be so much easier right now. But I’m a glutton for punishment. Always have been, always will be. And she’s the prime example of my self-torture.

I just can’t let her go. Even now, during the moments where I want to scream and throw my phone across the room, I know I’ll keep holding on.

The scary party is, I can’t imagine my life without her. So I endure all of the drama, the weird moods, the fights, the times she’s so adorable I want to kiss her, just to keep her there. I am still sacrificing for her, and I don’t know how to stop.

As I sit on the floor, head in my hands, I realize I don’t want to stop.

My mom is going to have my head off if I don’t hurry up. Church starts in 30 minutes and I’m still only in my underwear trying to decide what to wear. Not that it really matters. I barely pay attention in church anymore.

Okay, it’s not that I don’t believe in God, I very much do. But for the past few months, I just can’t seem to stay focused like I used to. I sit and daydream most of the time. Bad, I know. But I can’t help it.

I quickly decide on a sundress and go on my way. I run downstairs to find my mom glaring at me.

“You ready, princess? God doesn’t wait for fashionistas.”

I hold back an eye roll, and say, “Yes, Mom. Let’s go.”

We run out the door, and I sincerely hope this morning is not as bad as it’s shaping up to be.

Ugh. Head pounding.  Hair is a mess. Breath… don’t get me started on that. What did I do last night?

I begin to look around, lost on where exactly I am. A quick assessment tells me my suspicions were true. Cups, people passed out in varying states of nakedness, and me, lying next to a random girl.

Just another Saturday night in my life. No big deal.

I think I remember the girl’s name. Chelsea? No, that was a few weeks ago. Sara? No, she was some chick I just made out with. I don’t know the name of the girl I’m lying naked next to.

She’s pretty hot, though. I give my drunk self props for picking a good one.

I get up from the floor, and begin the hunt for my clothes. I end up finding them under a bed, in a crumpled mess. Now to the bathroom to check out how awful I look.

Not too bad. Makeup is smeared and I have pretty obvious sex hair. I can’t remember, but by the looks of my hair that hot girl must have been pretty great.

I do my best to make myself look presentable, grab the rest of my things, and walk out of wherever the hell I am to figure out how the hell I’m getting home.