Page 2 of Make Me Laugh

I manifest one as I put everything away, craving routine in times like these. Instead of sulking and allowing myself to wallow, I change into a pair of black mid-thigh biker shorts, the many tattoos I’ve got scattered across my legs on display. I slip into a matching sports bra but cover the two full sleeves on my arms with a tight fit athletic zip up.

Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I pull my hair into a messy ponytail, not even bothering with the shorter blonde strands that never stay put.

My favorite running shoes are in the closet by the front door and my lavender headphones are on their charger in the living room.

The best thing for me to do is to go about my day like I wasn’t just fired by the company who convinced me I’d made the greatest decision of my life when I accepted their lowball offer.

There was a time when I’d been passionate about the work I was doing at Vyce Talents. When I believed they actually cared about their employees.

I stretch before leaving the apartment, trying to avoid Hilda.

I do love her. She’s my tarot card reading, childless aunt-like figure with a remedy for everything—a rare local of Salem with some of the coolest stories ever. Last year she decided to let her hair go gray and stop coloring it black, but she still won’t let me teach her how to care for her curls and insists on keeping it pulled back in a bun most days. She wears the loudest, most eccentric outfits, and has been practicing yoga for forty-five years, but hearing why the stars aren’t aligning in my life and what’s out of whack would send me so far over the fucking edge…

I can figure that out on Monday.

Blaring a playlist full of alternative angst, I turn my brain off and run until my stomach growls loud enough to hear it when I remove my headphones, slowing my pace to check my watch.

The bagel with cream cheese I’d eaten at 8:00 a.m. was long gone, and I skipped lunch for the last minute meeting I was fired in.

I cut through a few neighboring alleyways to get home quicker, thanking whatever gods will listen Hilda isn’t around to hound me as I tuck back inside my apartment for the night.

After a quick shower, I throw on my rattiest T-shirt, holes from years of love eating away at the now thin cotton, and hold my two-sizes too big sweatpants up by tying the waistband tight.

Rainbows skitter across my apartment from the magenta glow of the setting sun hitting the suncatchers in my bay window. I plop down on the couch with leftovers from the fridge, getting cozy for my weekend of self-loathing.

Reruns of a late-2000s trashy reality show flash across the TV, but I’ve seen every episode at least a hundred times, so I don’t need to pay attention as I take my first bite of last night’s veggie stir fry and grab my rolling tray off the coffee table. I take bites of food in between filling the paper cone with the flower I grinded up earlier this week.

Anxiety’s a bitch, but at least there’s weed.

My fingers work swiftly over the paper, twisting the tip of the joint with expert ease. I don’t have to leave my couch to light it, because Hilda’s been smoking pot in her apartment since 1999.

The place smelled like weed before I moved in, and it’ll smell like it long after I move out.

I take a few hits, getting high enough to take the edge off and rest my sore muscles from the long run I’d done tonight. I couldn’t move slowly, couldn’t jog around the Salem I love and take in my favorite time of the year because I was just fired… Let go—my eyes roll into the back of my head—from the job I took a chance on.

I should have stuck to the plan, but no, I just had to try something different!

No, no, nope. You are not doing that. No sulking. I scold myself and grab my phone from the coffee table, scrolling my social medias and taking time to respond to some comments before a text message pops up at the top of my phone.

It’s from none other than Franceska Louise Sullivan, my best friend in the entire world.

Frankie

Wtf are you doing hellllooooo??? Answer me!

I ignored her call while on my run, and judging by that text, she’s about to start calling until I answer—or knowing her, she might just show up.

I answer on the second ring but don’t get the chance to say anything before Frankie’s blurting, “I heard what happened. Open the door.” A knock follows.

“Is that you?” I ask.

“Uh-ya, duh!” Click. Frankie hangs up.

I open the door, and she comes barreling in, fully dressed in the most Frankified outfit of the week. A pink and orange corduroy miniskirt, split in half by the colors with an open blazer of the same colored material and pattern, just opposite sides. Her pink go-go boots match perfectly, and her naturally bright copper hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail falling down her back in pretty waves.

She looks too done up to be coming over just to check on me…

“You got fired?” she asks, putting her purse down and opening the fridge to grab herself a peach-flavored seltzer.