I’m running short on holidays this year. Halloween is about all I’ve got guaranteed, and I’m pretty sure I’ve run that through, even packing an anniversary into it. I still have Veteran’s Day, of course, last of which I spent stumbling around between restaurants getting free drinks and/or chicken fingers for the veteran of my choice, and finding myself persuaded by two chaps of the highest order to quit holding onto my decency and allow myself to become a professional scandal.
After all, he said, he wouldn’t mind having a professional scandal for a girlfriend anyway, because the guys they work with tend to be douchebags and not looking to steal and settle down with their coworkers anyway. Plus, I’ve got an amazing body, or so I was told by at least two sources. I think I might be saying too much tonight, but I’m full of wine and anniversary and riding the Halloween wave. I have only barely disrobed from forms of costume.
Thanksgiving, I’ll be full of non-recreational drugs and have some obsolete organs removed. They’re called tonsils, and have brought me nothing but suffering since I was a child. I’m relieved someone else has finally decided they merit extraction from my life. This does mean, however, no Thanksgiving feed to be had, and subsequently I’ll have to surrender my habits of anything delicious for a while, such as booze, spices, and citrus.
I will become so bored. Everyone says Vicodin will delight me, but I’m pretty sure I’ll just feel like blah and want to sleep a lot and wish I could hold more limes.
After that, I’ll be stumbling around the East Coast on some kind of inappropriately thought out budget and visiting with some of my 20-something friends from the internet, and that’s not really a proper Christmas when you’ve just finally got your own place, if at all. No, a proper Christmas involves having a pre-established place to cover in excessive wrapping paper and decorations and vacuuming up trash after the ingrateful adult children of yours leave to go get drunk with their cats and ne’er-do-well significant others and whatnot.
(I have no experience with evading family holidays at all. Really.)
Fortunately, a young woman in my keep will not have to be. Her name is Victoria Adriana Salazar, and she is a fine protagonist. She lives out the sleaze that I will not admit to.
This is her story.
Or perhaps it is the story of the person telling her story.
Oh, I’m pretty sure I’ve already insinuated some awful things about my lifestyle. But I’ll assure you, I’m a writer and all that it implies, including the vices and including the unstoppable impulse to write and tell stories.
This is my story.