VICTORIA, TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING IS STILL TOO MUCH
At twenty—six, I am the last of my circle who is still single. Everyone else is either married, getting married, or in one friend's case – remarrying. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride – that is me. So far, that has been me eleven times. Two more to go after tonight. Then I'm sure baby fever will hit, and I won't see any of my friends except at their kids' birthday parties. Oh yeah. Sounds amazing. I wonder if running away and becoming a new person is a possibility? Fuck my life.
And apparently that right there is a big part of my problem in 'keeping a man'. Unbelievable. Who doesn't love unsolicited advice and input on their personal lives? Yeah – uh, everyone. Duh. Doesn't stop my co—worker Leah from giving me her two cents – which is all it is fucking worth. She worries my swearing and bad attitude will be the only thing fucking me when I'm ninety. She has such a talent with words. Ugh. I don't have a bad attitude; I prefer to think of myself as feisty.
And I don't swear all of the time, I can control myself. From the moment I set foot on the school grounds every day until I leave, I am Ms. Thomas – second grade EA. I'm a prime example for the children around me, both in language and behaviour. I have got it together. At least, at work – I have got it together.
It's my personal life that is a fucking train wreck.
I am still single, despite numerous attempts to alter that status permanently. That is my fancy way of saying I've had my share of boyfriends, but none of them stuck. I love sex, and apparently knowing your own body and what you like scares some men. Doesn't matter how tall or old they get; some men never outgrow the little boys inside. Well, too bad for you. If that scares you, you're not worth my time. My foot + your ass = the curb.
I am looking for the man for me. He is going to like my out of control copper—coloured hair, even when it frizzes in high humidity. He will want me to stop covering up the freckles I once used to wear proudly, but now hide through the miracles of makeup. Sometimes kids can be cruel and growing up looking like a clown with chicken pox didn't help. Learning to defend myself, and sometimes kick the shit out of one of the other kids in the parade of foster homes I grew up in, made me tough. Or, tougher. You can still hurt my feelings the same as anyone else.
Feistiness, or bad attitude – call it what you want. It was my survival tactic growing up, and it still works for me now. If working for me means keeping people at a distance, and growing old alone – well, maybe that won't be so terrible. You know what else doesn't sound so terrible until you do it? Bikini waxing. Both hold the same amount of appeal. Fucking depressing.
One way to make yet another wedding reception go faster, is to be completely fucking drunk the entire time. Times flies when you're in the bathroom puking your guts out. You don't have to avoid grabby groomsmen then either – since when does being at a wedding automatically mean everyone is up for sex? I often am – but that's my decision. No one else's.
The reception is being held at the bride's parents' country club. Fan—cy! Like, lady holding towels in the bathroom fancy. The kind of place I'd never see the inside of otherwise. And their bathroom floor is spotless. Thank God because I'm spending a lot of time down here tonight.
Reassuring myself that I can enjoy the midnight lunch now, since the calories of dinner are no longer with me, I freshen up. Like it would matter anyways – I'm going to fucking eat regardless. My other drawback, apparently. My weight. My body. I didn't know there was anything wrong until some of the other girls from school started telling me. Every day. Multiple times a day. Yeah, elementary and high school were both great. If you like having someone shove a mental red—hot poker up your ass on a daily basis – fucking perfect.
I've always been heavy, and I was really round when I was little. Who knows what genetic cocktail of marvels I inherited, but I can starve myself and actually gain weight. I'm never going to be a size six, but I wish society would shut the hell up. As long as a woman is healthy and feels good about herself – that should be all that matters. Her self—esteem. Her well—being.
But that isn't how it is.
Sex sells everything, and there are breasts and naked abs everywhere on television and in the movies. And all of those women haven't had anything to eat since the Clinton administration. If the age discrepancy didn't make that sound so stupid, it doesn't make it any less true. The skinnier you are – the sexier you are. Not to all people – just some people. Most people.
Like ninety percent of the fucking population. The rest enjoy sex with shoes or fantasizing about fucking their favourite anime character. A tiny percentage are attracted to women my size, or at least it feels like it. Some men will fuck anyone given the opportunity, so having a high body count means shit. I have yet to meet someone who actually wants to stick around for longer than a week or two. Or who sees me as more than big tits and a selection of holes to fuck.
Meh. Someday.
In the meantime, my stomach has settled and I'm ready for a new drink. I can't risk sobering up before the bride and groom leave, which means the rest of us can get the hell out of here too. I wonder if I pretended to be sick if I could get out early that way?
I take two drinks with me, one in each hand. Multi—tasking. There is a golf course behind the club, along with acres of landscapes gardens. The place is beautiful. And blessedly quiet after the cacophony of the dance. The moon is bright enough so I can see where I'm walking, because the yard lighting isn't enough for me in my current state. Wow. I am smashed. I toast myself on a job well done and clink my glasses together.
I can hear voices coming from somewhere ahead, and they sound angry. Ooohhh, maybe someone caught their date kissing someone else? Naughty naughty! Holy shit, I am really fucked up. I don't hear a woman's voice though, which seems weird. Now all kinds of horrible scenarios are running through my inebriated brain; she's unconscious, she's being held against her will… the two men who love her accidentally killed her in their fight… I should write books. As drunk as I am, I know I'm being stupid. I have an entirely fabricated horror show all worked out, when it is likely someone giving a gardener shit for leaving tools out or something. But I need to get closer, to be sure.
It never occurs to me to be discreet – why would it? I'm young, pretty and drunk. There ain't nothing coming at me I can't handle, including some lover's quarrel. That seems like a rational argument. And I think, normally, that's all it would be. That's all I would run into – a lover's quarrel. But that isn't what I stumble into.
I don't hear the gun go off, but I see it fire. There's no sound. The man standing in front of the business end collapses to the ground. No blood. He's dead. Has to be. But no blood. Weird. Everything is in slow motion. The man holding the gun looks at me. His mouth is moving, but I can't hear him. There are other men here too. More guns. They're going to shoot me too.
I can't move, despite my brain screaming at me to run. I'm going to die, and my fucking body is frozen in place. I couldn't make it any easier for them if I tried. I was just throwing up. Now I'm surrounded by guns. Way to go, Vic. You just pity—partied yourself into a fucking bullet.
It's like in the movies where everything takes forever to happen, yet it is still all happening so fast. I don't feel any pain, but I hear a loud sound that has to be a gun. I know I'm falling to the ground, collapsing like that dead guy did. This sucks. I don't want to die.
Death doesn't hurt though, which is a huge relief. I've always worried and wondered. Now I'm going to find out if there is life after death, and that's cool. I wonder if I can come back and tell people what I find out? That'd be cool. I'd be an awesome ghost.
Blackness is creeping in, and I know this is it. Well shit. I didn't do any of the travelling I wanted to do or find my happily ever after – and that fucking sucks!
At least death doesn't hurt.
