March 12
The first thing I think of when I wake up is not the letter and its creepy message but my p***s. It hurts. I throw off the comforter and sheet and look down. Where the little blisters had been are now angry deep red bumps, almost like scabs but not crusty.
Shit. This will entail a trip to the doctor, and lucky me! No insurance.
I’m sure it’s herpes. What a wonderful life. I’ve lost my job. I don’t know how I’ll pay the rent next month, and now I have herpes.
How could I get herpes? That’s a good one. How could I not get herpes?
So here I sit, watching The Golden Girls on Lifetime (I should probably cancel the cable), remembering when it was funny to think that I identified with Blanche, the “human mattress,” as her elderly roommate Sophia referred to her.
Oh yeah, promiscuit
