𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐗𝐈

• 11 •

I thought that Wednesday could not get anymore eventful, but at night, it got more fucking eventful.

Although it was a work night, Ralph got drank off his ass and I had to pick him up as a screaming manic man at a pub in a different fucking city. I came to learn that his friends in his workplace are as crazy as him. Lemon was traumatized when the man vomited on her shiny wheels twice. I had to haul his ass into the backseat, drive to our apartment hearing his awful rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody on repeat, and carry his beer-filled body up the stairs because the elevator, as usual, was not working.

Since the man's apartment is fucking disgusting, I had to let him into my unit. He vomited again on the couch and I wished he had drank a couple ounces more—just enough so that he'd be unconscious. The universe, however, had to give him the exact amount to turn into a hysteric bloke with a love for Queen. Our neighbor is an old man named Jameson. Jameson came knocking on my door at eleven to ask if I was keeping an escapee from a mental institution.

I got some interrupted sleep at two in the morning, right after I had changed into a clean pair of no-vomit clothes. A drunk Ralph is a handful. He called in sick for work the next day.

Thursday is when I received a call from mommy dearest. Half of the hour-long chitchat was her complaining about the yellow, brown, and orange leaves piled in her driveway with me replying in monosyllables, clueless as to how she wants me to respond. The other half held more interesting topics than the prior. A part of it went like this:

"I wanna be an actress," said the woman. What concerned me the most was that she sounded serious. Dead serious.

"Are you okay?" I asked, "I thought you already went through midlife crisis when you tried to become a drummer."

"This is the second wave," she explained, "I want to become an actress and I'm serious, Gianna."

"If you say so," I sang, sure that her little dream will be short-lived.

"Do you think I have it in me?" the woman asked. I tried not to laugh.

I spoke, "Are we talking Meryl Streep or are we talking Anne Hathaway?" referring to roles.

She didn't miss a beat, "Anne Hathaway."

"Yeah, keep dreaming," I snorted and hugged myself, gazing down at life in the streets from my balcony.

"And I expected my daughter to support me," she complained.

"You're growing backwards," I told her.

"No," said mom, "Sometimes, the older the better."

And the question was out before I could form it better, "What if I like a guy more than a decade older than me?" I know it happens to a lot of people—ehem—but I wanted my mother's say.

Mom scoffed, "Totally normal, dear. Never been with one, but when I was your age, I was crushing on men twenty years older than me."

After hearing the queen's voice, my mood's been lifted. I should really start earning money for a hometown visit. My wits have been making enough money for my needs, though I should work harder for my wants. Family as motivation in mind, I accepted all deals I found in my emails and worked the whole day, only stopping for dinner which was leftover strawberry cheesecake from Ralph's fridge.