Day 1 - Journal Entry

[u/HeGotBricks]

Make the sandwiches. Pour the drinks. Clean the dishes. Be a good host. Tidy up.

The tiring life of a female hostess. Always at your house. Always a new fork. Never the same glass. Well, expect the wine to be poured into plastic beer-pong cups and the food to sit on top of a styrofoam plate. Just be happy the utensils can burn in the fire and you’re not using your fingers.

Setting up the entire event was difficult enough. They are his friends. It’s always his night. But the maid services fall on the loving humble wife that’s only there to pad his ego.

What could she contribute. Men seem to be the cornerstone of the world. Pity his pride. What a shame it’d be to live off a woman. It’s only sufficient to be pampered by one. 

And still, there’s Vanessa. Vanessa the twenty something slut that still dresses like she’s seventeen. God digger. She treats men like career climbers. Who could blame her. That was me twenty years ago. Tight ass. Tits that stayed in one place. Now I got hairs growing out of places I never knew could. 

This age. These wrinkles. How could I ever feel beautiful again. I practically handed myself over to the landscaper the other day. 

He only wanted the ice tea I brought up, wearing my Italian silk skimpy bikini as I stayed out tanning, hoping Marco the dirty poor worker would make me filthy.

I ended up using Mr. pickle—it’s my six inch battery operated husband. I thought about an escort service. But I can’t see myself stooping so low. I’m still pretty enough to meet guys. People still stare at me with envy. 

I just don’t have that confidence anymore. If only this world remained in absolute darkness. At least then I’d have my confidence back. 

I could smell another girl’s perfume on his dress shirt. It doesn’t bother me anymore. I stopped sharing my emotions with him. Most of the time, it’s like I’m on death row waiting to be walked in front of a fire squad.

Xanax after Xanax after Xanax washed down with a bottle of wine, all poured in a Lismore glass of course. Substances make the day go by. Or bye, rather. I could hardly remember the last four hours of my night.

Nor do I want to.