Not Wednesday, but WIP

[chicating]

could imagine a world where I could have had a better time at Justine’s bachelorette. Maybe if I’d gotten paid what I’d been owed in the wake of “my” company’s collapse—I’d found out just how little I’d owned in the end—or gotten snapped up by another company like a freakishly experienced recent graduate as I hoped, maybe I could have just leaned back in the pink blazer I didn’t need for work in the end. I had my own ways of making sure I didn’t have to wear it with the tags on to return it later. Which I like, except for the part where nobody wants to grow up to be a thief.
Thinking about the most-innocent version made it easier to almost forget how that weekend ended: that I didn’t just have my clean-dirty fun, nurse my hangover headache, make some impossible promises to my old friends, and go home. If I’m completely honest, I haven’t been the same, ever since. Maybe I ache because I can feel my wrongness in my bones, even if the physician’s assistant called it the beginning of arthritis, only finding it surprising because of my age or because it wasn’t repetitive stress, but she didn’t know me either, so it was easy to write me a script for huge capsules of ibuprofen and send me home. Sucks to be me