Nineteen
TGIF
I crawl into work. No, like, literally. I have to forgo my usual Friday shoes (Alexander McQueen leather ankle-cuff stiletto sandals, in black) and wear my runners—much to the mirth of my fellow council members when I stumble stiff-legged into our ten o’clock meeting—because my calves are on fire. I’ve taken the max dose of Tylenol since ibuprofen has been burning my gut again, and per Dakota’s instructions when she left my porch to jog back to her house, I am drinking a ton of water, so much that I have to urinate every ten minutes.
Not helpful considering I have much to do today—maybe I should see if the Tipping Point has any adult diapers.
First things first: I call Rupert and subject him to an inquisition regarding Dakota’s bombshell revelation. “It’s a surprise only
