Plan B. I dent the driver’s side door. Twice. Three times. The last hit is more of a mental-health bonk, but it echoes with the kind of energy that gets restraining orders re-evaluated.
I breathe. Then get to the art.
Out comes the dollar store lipstick, radioactive orange. I strut to the windshield and scrawl across the glass in aggressive cursive:
FIND A NEW GYM.
The dot on the i? A glitter-covered gummy worm pressed dead center like a cursed exclamation mark.
I tie the bat to the windshield wiper using silver ribbon from the craft aisle and hang the tag off it:
This was foreplay.
Try me again and you’ll be fucked.
Then I sign the tag with a kiss. Full gloss. No smudges. Perfect.
But I’m not done.
Because Chad fucked with my Jett moment. Chad interrupted divine biker-fingered justice. So now Chad gets the deluxe package.
I drop the rest of the gummy worms across the hood like some sour candy sacrifice to the gods of petty vengeance. Then I raise my palm and unleash glitter like a fabulous warlock casting a level-10 petty curse.
I glance at his license plate. It’s too smug.
So I draw a penis on it with the lipstick. A tasteful one. Curated. Veiny.
I pause. Crouch. Eye the tailpipe.
“He really did ruin my second round,” I whisper.
I shove three gummy worms up the tailpipe, pat the car goodbye and whisper, “Namaste, fuckstick.”
Then disappear into the night.
Pink balaclava. Glitter on my hands. Justice in my heart.
Journal Entry #5
Monday August 2nd
Therapy Journal
Dear Rhys,
Your office wench is dead to me. She wouldn’t give you my message OR your personal number, even when I clearly stated this was a mental health crisis. I was the crisis. Denying that was a violation of your oath or whatever.
But despite being abandoned by the one man legally required to care about me, I had a very productive day. I went to a gym class. Like a responsible woman trying to connect with her group therapy nemesis/sexual fantasy. And then some protein-powered dick-stain called me a tramp while I was mid-consensual public fingering. Which, FYI, is rude.
But did I spiral? (Publicly?) No.
I persevered. I did relationship work. With Benji.
I broke into his house like a loving raccoon and left him a gift. Took a souvenir. He thanked me.
Because some men, unlike Hank the walking restraining order, actually know how to receive love.
And NO, I have not driven by Hank’s apartment. Or his new girlfriend’s yoga studio. Or their hideous matching mailbox with her last name hyphenated. I only know that because of social media, Rhys. I’m healthy.
