Today is exactly eight months since my last post. Eight long, strange months. So much has happened so, in the interest of continuity, I'll pick up where I left off and try to weave the crazy tale together in some cohesive way. Ok, flash back to the night of my pool party with Aurora...
I got a little tipsy (read that 'shit faced drunk') and slept outside on a poolside lounge. Aurora, god bless her, tossed a blanket over me and left an Evian and a bottle of Tylenol on the side table for me to find in the morning, along with a note telling me she'd put my handbag and stuff in the poolhouse. I caught a cab home, spending precious cash from my dwindling supply, and made the walk of shame to my apartment, without even the pink afterglow of random sex to blur the embarrassment. How pathetic is that? I was met with another load of happy horseshit when I checked the messages. My disgusting pig of an employer called to tell me my services were no longer needed. No warning, no two-week notice, just "Yeah, uh, listen babe, don't come in tomorrow. I think I got it from here. I'll mail you your check. Have a nice day!"
I know you can probably guess why he kicked me to the curb. He found a skanky new 'secretary' on craigslist who was apparently willing to put out to get the job. I know this because I decided to march right in that morning and demand my final check. In California, an employer is required to pay you immediately upon termination or they must pay you full wages for each day they wait. It probably would have been smarter for me to just wait then complain to the EDD. Anyhow, I took a shower, slapped on some makeup, hid what I couldn't fix behind my Jackie O sunglasses and walked to the office with my head held high and righteous determination gleaming in my bloodshot eyes.
I used my key and let myself in and there, sitting at my perfectly organized plastic-table-which-serves-as-a-desk, her big butt planted in my task chair, was 'Brandy', the human sex doll. She was about five-two and thick, weighing in at about 140. Her damaged platinum blonde hair blended awkwardly into a a set of long, synthetic clip-in extensions. This broad had obviously never learned the art of blending makeup. Her glittery eyeshadow was painted on in blue, taupe, and white stripes. A sharp line marked her jaw where the two-shades-too-light foundation abruptly stopped. The one thing she'd done right was lining her restylaned lips perfectly with red lipliner. Her lipstick, sadly, was pink.
Ok, I admit I'm probably hitting below the belt with this rant, but the bitch stole my job with her fake boobs. Cutting to the chase, I walked out with a check for $213.57, a total of $543.87 in unpaid bills in my purse, and $57.00 in the bank.
Believe it or not, it actually got worse before the miracle occurred that has changed my life, although I'm still not sure for the better.