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“How?”

“By getting out of my way. Now move it.”

I speed past and he follows suit. I waste no time locking the door and strutting to the elevator.

I can hear his optimism deflate as he calls after me, “You’re not reassuring me.”

“Don’t worry, I got it,” I yell from inside the elevator just as the doors begin to close.

Hey, part of lying successfully is believing your own lie…right?

I wouldn’t even say it’s lying. That feels harsh. It’s more like gaslighting myself into positivity. Which then crosses over into manifesting, so the money I need is already mine, right?

I got this.

Right? Right?!

2

NATALIA

Sometimes you crash out at home,

other times it’s at work

In an abrupt yet not shocking turn of events, it turns out that I, in fact, do not have this.

Not to worry, not all is lost, what I do have is a monster headache that’s teetering on migraine potential and a strong urge to crawl back into bed and call it a fucking day, so there’s that.

It’s not even noon and today has convinced me that the universe has a cruel sense of humor, especially when you’re fortunate enough to have your birthday fall on Friday the thirteenth.

Why’s that? I’m so glad you asked. Let’s see if I can sum up the shit show.

After Harold stopped by to remind me how broke I am, my car decided not to start. No big deal there. Old Bessie is, well…old. She’s going on eighteen years and hasn’t had a proper oil change or maintenance in what feels to be just as long. Really, it’s a miracle she’s even capable of starting in the first place. After some touch-and-go moments, I finally got her to start long enough for me to drive over a nail conveniently placed upright in a pothole I was unable to dodge. Can’t wait to see how much a replacement tire is going to cost. Needless to say, she’ll be staying put in the office’s parking lot.

Of course, it started pouring as soon as I left Bessie with her wounded tire.

I know what’s going to come next.

But, Natalia, you live in Seattle, rain in October isn’t out of the norm. It’s Seattle after all.

No shit, Brenda—absolutely no offense to anyone named Brenda—but I’m a New Yorker who, yes, moved from Sleepy Hollow to Seattle when I was in preschool. I clearly haven’t in all these years received the memo. And for the record, it’s the beginning of the transition into the rainy season. So technically, it shouldn’t be downpouring like this. But that’s beside the point. Let’s focus.

Because it was raining cats and fucking dogs—and as my lack of luck or preparation would have it, I had no umbrella or hood, for that matter—the however many steps from the parking lot to the Radiate Gaming lobby had me looking like I dove into a pool with my clothes on.

As if all of this isn’t a tragic enough way to start any morning, let alone my thirty-fourth birthday, I forgot to charge my phone last night. It died while I was getting pummeled with rain. Thankfully I have a fast charger in my office, and it was up and running again in seconds. Just in time for my mom’s obligatory birthday message. Usually, it’s a text along the lines of.

Happy Birthday, mami. May the Lord bless you and…blah, blah, blah. Truthfully, every time she tries to take me to church instead of talking to me like the religious trauma-filled agnostic I am, my attention starts drifting.

But today’s message was different. She decided to leave a voicemail. Lucky me. Not only did I get to hear her typical Holy Roller intro instead of reading it, but she decided to use my birthday as the perfect opportunity to make it about her.

Nothing screams happy birthday like passive-aggressive victimhood, telling me in so many words how hurt she is for me not reaching out to her daily. It’s called boundaries, Ma. Years of being told how disappointing I am, and in so many words a shit daughter, will do that to a person.

I don’t understand why she’d think there wouldn’t be distance between us. Degradation kink, or not, I have my limits of being told I’m going to hell and need to repent every two seconds for things as miniscule as watching horror movies.

I know, it sounds ridiculous. That’s because it is. Welcome to my life, what can I say?

If nothing else, the one-minute-and-forty-two-second voice message was solid background noise while I cursed under my breath, trying to find the Post-it note I keep with my email log-in information since the office apparently lost power the night prior and kicked everyone out of their accounts.