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Musings of a Professional Disaster.

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  • If He Wanted To, He Would.

    I was sick as a dog last week.

    Not cute sick. Not “I have the sniffles, bring me soup” sick. I mean fever, body aches, no sleep, vomiting, crying, dramatic Victorian child in a nightgown near an open window kind of sick.

    At some point in the middle of my spiral, I texted Manifested Man. It was well after 2am and I knew he was either home, in bed, not snoring (thanks to that CPAP) or still in the parking lot of the hockey rink, tearing it up with his buddies.

    I didn’t text him because I expected him to fix it. Not because I had some grand plan. I was just miserable, exhausted, and apparently committed to whining to the man I love from my deathbed.

    And then, before I knew it, he was at my front door.

    There are moments in life that sound small when you say them out loud. “He came over when I was sick.” Okay. Fine. People do that.

    But if you have ever had to be the strong one for too long, if you have ever had to handle everything yourself, if you have ever been loved loudly in theory and left alone in practice, then you know that someone showing up at your door when you are at your absolute least glamorous is not small.

    It is everything. Especially at 2:45am/

    I did not look pretty. I did not feel romantic. I was not soft-lit, freshly showered, and gracefully curled under a blanket waiting to be cared for. I was feverish and emotional and probably looked like I had been dragged behind a shopping cart through a Walgreens parking lot.

    And he still showed up. He got me a glass of water, asked if I wanted to go to the hospital, and then just sat there and made sure I was okay.

    Then, because apparently the universe enjoys emotional whiplash as much as I enjoy turning my life into a blog post, the weekend somehow turned beautiful.

    I went from sick, crying, and miserable to spending an amazing day out with him and his friends. The kind of day that feels normal in the best possible way. Not performative. Not forced. Just easy. Like I belonged there. Like this wasn’t some temporary little romantic side quest, but something I was slowly being folded into.

    At the end of the evening, he dropped me off at home, where taped to my front door, was my lease renewal.

    Nothing kills a soft landing quite like paperwork from your landlord.

    I saw the rent increase and immediately felt that familiar adult panic crawl up my spine. The kind where your brain starts doing math it does not have the emotional capacity to do. The kind where you stare at a number and think, “Okay, so which organ am I selling first?”

    Manifested Man saw it too.

    And without hesitation, without a dramatic pause, without making me explain why I was stressed or prove why it mattered, he said, “How do you feel about living in Palm Coast?”

    That was it.

    That was the sentence.

    Not “that sucks.” Not “you’ll figure it out.” Not “let me know what you decide.” Not vague boyfriend sympathy from a safe emotional distance.

    “How do you feel about living in Palm Coast?”

    As in: with me.

    As in: come home.

    As in: let’s stop talking about someday like it is a fictional place and start looking at the calendar.

    There are things I used to think I wanted because they sounded romantic. Big speeches. Grand gestures. Someone declaring their love in a way that would make a teenage version of me write song lyrics in an AIM away message.

    But now?

    Now romance is someone showing up when I am sick.

    Romance is someone looking at a lease renewal and immediately thinking in terms of us.

    Romance is not having to convince someone that life is heavy.

    Romance is hearing, “How do you feel about living in Palm Coast?” and realizing he has already made room for me in his future.

    So now we are planning a move-in date.

    A real one.

    A date-date. A put-it-on-the-calendar, figure-out-the-logistics, start-imagining-where-my-things-go kind of date.

    And I am trying very hard to be normal about it, which is unfortunate, because I have never once been normal about anything in my entire life.

    I am excited. I am terrified. I am emotional. I am making mental lists and pretending they are practical when they are mostly just feelings wearing a clipboard.

    But more than anything, I feel safe.

    And maybe that is the part I do not know how to write without sounding dramatic.

    This man is healing me.

    Not because he is responsible for fixing me. Not because love magically erases every bad thing that came before it. Not because moving in together turns life into a Pinterest board with matching coffee mugs and no baggage.

    But because every time life gives him an opportunity to disappear, he shows up.

    If he wanted to, he would.

    And boy is he.

  • The Art of “I Don’t Care.”

    “Where do you want to get dinner tonight?” Manifested Man asks, hoping I’m not like every other woman who doesn’t want to make a decision. “I don’t care,” I answer, because I am very much just like all the other women… but am I really?

    I don’t care where we have dinner, because I’m not a picky eater. I will find something on any menu that I will enjoy eating, in your company. I would eat the greasiest, cheesiest burger on this side of the Mississippi no matter what day it is. I would have a peanut butter and jelly Uncrustable in your kitchen at midnight, wearing just a big t-shirt, if it meant I got to eat next to you.

    “Do you want to go to Mulligans to watch the game with my friends?” Absolutely I do. I want to meet your friends, and see you happy and having fun. “What do you want to drink?” He asks, assuming I’m going to request a “whiskey and whatever” type of drink. “I don’t care, I’ll have what you’re having.” Because I genuinely do not mind sipping a cold Coors Light on the picnic tables outside, watching a sport I don’t fully understand. I don’t care, because I want you to have fun. You having fun means I’m having fun. Your smile is my favorite part of the whole night, not whichever beer is sweating in the bucket,

    ‘I’m playing hockey tonight, do you want to come watch?” I absolutely do! No matter how bad some of your teammates are, I love watching you do your thing. Do I care if you want to stand in the parking lot after the game, drinking beer and bullshitting with the boys? Of course I don’t care. Not because I don’t care about you, but because I do. I will sit on your tailgate, sip on my water and drive you home because I don’t care if you want to drink your whole cooler of beers on a weekend night.

    “I’m going out with the boys on Saturday to celebrate,” he texted. I asked if he wanted me to come along to be his designated driver, because I don’t care if he wants to get drunk with his boys. I care about this man so fucking much, but I trust him.

    “No, I don’t want you to come with me as my DD. I want you to come with me as my girlfriend.” Do I care that he has never asked me to go somewhere as his girlfriend? I absolutely do not. I know how he feels about me, and the feelings I have for him do not revolve around a label. (Wait– isn’t this what I’ve been waiting for?!)

    What I do care about is making his life easier. I care about not causing him stress, sadness, or disappointment. I care about supplementing his existence and hoping he realizes that I only have good intentions.

    There is a difference between not caring and not having needs.

    I care about respect. I care about honesty. I care about effort. I care about feeling safe, chosen, and considered.

    I do not care if dinner is burgers, wings, or an Uncrustable at midnight.

    I do not care if the night ends at a bar, a hockey rink, a tailgate, or your kitchen counter.

    I do not care about the small stuff, because the big stuff is already taking up all the room in my heart.

    My parents used to have this little book in the powder room when I was a kid. Classic toilet literature. It was called Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff. And It’s All Small Stuff. At the time, I mostly remember wondering why adults needed bathroom homework.

    But now I think I get it.

    The small stuff is where we waste so much love trying to prove a point. Where we turn dinner plans into personality tests and drink orders into compatibility issues. Where we confuse preference with principle.

    I am trying to learn the difference, because I do care.

    I care so much it’s embarrassing.

    I just don’t care where we eat. (Also, I can’t really taste the different between Coors Light and Michelob Ultra anyway.)

    Nothing says childhood quite like learning emotional regulation from a self-help book strategically placed near a toilet.

  • I’m Not Built For Casual.

    {First things first, I have a small inkling that Manifested Man has been reading these posts… only because all the worries of yesterday were quickly eased in a quick conversation. Not saying I don’t appreciate it, I do! The communication between us has been amazing. Maybe I’m just a little embarrassed… internet strangers can read my ramblings all day long but knowing someone that means so much to me has seen my inner thoughts… that’s some pressure lol.}

    Whether we’re talking about relationships, friendships, hobbies, or my job, I only have one speed. I need to be the best. I need to be his favorite ex, I need to be the fastest, I need to make the best pancakes ever… Maybe that’s a personality flaw. Maybe it’s a competitive sport. Maybe I have a praise kink, who knows! (Manifested Man knows.)

    I cannot just casually participate in life. I can’t just be a number, or one of the girls. I can’t casually sit in the back of the classroom and accept a participation trophy. I need to have the best stories, the best inside jokes, the best evidence and the best arrest reports.

    Casual relationship? Can’t do it, my feelings are strong, my heart is huge and I’m going to make sure you know that I love you. Repeatedly. With eye contact. Possibly with a baked good.

    I am not the girl who can say, “We’ll see where this goes,” and then peacefully go about her day. I need to know where it’s going, what time we’re leaving, whether snacks are provided, and if I should start emotionally preparing a playlist.

    Casual friendship? Also no.

    You make me laugh twice and suddenly you’re in the lore. You have a nickname. You have been assigned a role in my emotional support ecosystem. You may be mentioned in a blog post. You may become brother-ish against your will.

    Casual hobby? Please.

    I did not “start a blog.” I resurrected an entire internet personality from the early 2000s, gave her a glitter background, built her a sidebar ghost, and started referring to my life as content. That is not a hobby. That is a rebrand with unresolved trauma.

    Casual job? Absolutely not.

    I cannot simply clock in and perform tasks at an acceptable level. I need to be useful. I need to be trusted. I need to be the person everyone calls when something is on fire, metaphorically or, depending on the workplace, possibly literally.

    I need to know the rules, become good at the rules, quietly judge everyone else for not knowing the rules, and then somehow still end up emotionally attached to the job that is ruining my life.

    I was not built for casual.

    I was built for overcommitting, overexplaining, overthinking, and occasionally over-performing out of pure spite. Maybe some people are built for casual. Maybe some people can float through life, lightly enjoying things, not assigning meaning to every look, sentence, coincidence, song lyric, or Italian vacation.

    Good for them.

    I hope they’re sleeping well.

    Personally, I will be over here feeling everything at full volume, collecting receipts for the universe, making the best pancakes anyone has ever had, and trying very hard not to ask Manifested Man if he still likes me every time he gets quiet for twelve minutes.

    Growth is a garden, and I dig it.


  • My Brother-ish.

    Before anyone gets dramatic, this is not a love story. At least, not that kind.

    There is not, and has never been, a single romantic ounce between us. He is not the one who got away. He is not the backup plan. He is not a plot twist waiting to happen. He is more like the big brother I accidentally acquired during one of the worst chapters of my life. (Which I’m sure sounds very sweet, until you realize he also makes terrible decisions, has an equally ridiculous dating life, and moved to my city after five years of basically being my emotionally supportive pen pal.)

    So yes, this is a love story. Just not the kind people usually know what to do with. I have a best friend, and we’re going to call him Justin, because that’s the fake name he uses on dating apps lmao.

    He came into my life during one of those chapters I still don’t know how to write about without either making it too dark or too vague. So for now, I’ll just say this: he showed up when I needed someone most.

    Not in a grand, cinematic, running-through-the-airport kind of way. More like a notification. A message. A person on the other side of a screen who somehow became safer than people I had known for years.

    I told him secrets I had no business trusting him with. He told me his, and somewhere between trauma dumping, bad jokes, emotional honesty, and both of us making questionable life choices, we bonded instantly.

    The funny thing is, for someone who feels like such a permanent fixture in my life, I can probably count on two hands the number of times we have actually been in the same room. Most of our friendship has existed through messages, phone calls, secrets, screenshots, crisis updates, and whatever emotional support can be legally provided through a cell phone. The second time we ever met in person, he came over to my house while I was making food, and somehow, in the natural flow of conversation, I called him a bitch. As one does. From that moment on, my nickname was B. Not for beautiful. Not for best friend. Bitch. And honestly, it has been one of the more stable relationships in my life.

    He is the only person who has ever seen me so drunk that I fell out of his Jeep in a bar parking lot, which is both horrifying and unfortunately very on brand. He has talked me through three absolutely terrible relationships, watched me chase my dream of becoming a cop, and somehow remained emotionally available through our plotlines that included the Mexican princess, the crazy white lady, and whatever disaster we were personally starring in at the time.

    Sometimes we drift apart. Usually because he tells me some harsh truth I absolutely did not ask for, I get butthurt, and then I go be dramatic about it in private. But we always come back.

    Because that’s what he is to me.

    Not a backup plan. Not a romantic possibility. Not a threat to anything real in my life.

    He is my rock. My accidental brother. The person who has seen too many versions of me to be easily scared off.

    And I hope to God [redacted] understands that some friendships are not competition. Some people are just part of the foundation.

    ✨ Spark Note:

    Not every love story is romantic.

    Some are built out of bad decisions, brutal honesty, badly timed jokes, and one person deciding to stay long enough to become family.

    This one just happens to call me B.

  • 53 Days Later.

    53 days ago, [redacted] was walking around Florence, Italy, trying to get my attention.

    I know this because he said it casually, like it was not the most insane sentence anyone has ever handed me. Which is especially rude, because 53 days ago, I was also trying to get his attention.

    I don’t know his version yet. I don’t know what he saw, what he thought, or what made him decide to reach toward me from the other side of the ocean. I don’t know if he was standing under some beautiful old building, pretending to be normal while silently plotting his next move.

    I only know my version.

    And in my version, I thought I was the only one being ridiculous.

    I thought it was just me clicking that stupid little heart button, knowing it would be our little secret. Knowing that [redacted] would see my little heart and have the option to reply.

    And then he actually chose to.

    Maybe someday I’ll ask him for his version. What he was thinking. Whether he was replying to be polite, or because he had the same flutter in his stomach that I did when I saw him weeks before in the airport.

    Maybe I’ll find out what Florence looked like from his side of the story.

    For now, I just know this: while I was sitting here trying to be noticed, he was walking around Italy trying to notice me back.

    And I’m sorry, but that is exactly the kind of evidence I will be submitting to the universe.

    I think I just discovered that I am the drama.

    I am a woman with a nervous system built by unpaid interns, trying to process secure love for the first time, who immediately files a missing person’s report on emotional consistency.

    I thought [redacted] being quiet because his life was heavy was about me.

    It never was.

    I realize now that it was my brain being scared, because what my Manifested Man and I have matters to me. When something finally matters in a good way, my survival mode brain treats it like a threat, because I don’t always know the difference between “I love this” and “I could lose this.”

    I spent all day thinking [redacted] realized he didn’t want to be with me.

    Turns out, he wants me as much as I want him.

  • Please Don’t Make Me Say It…

    I have always been better at writing the truth than saying it out loud.

    Spoken words betray me. They shake, or crack, or come out too casual because I’m trying so hard not to sound like I’m falling apart.

    But written words sit still. They let me arrange the chaos in my head into something that almost makes sense. I can write things down and then I don’t have to see your face when you realize it’s about you.

    I can’t say out loud that I’m scared, and that I don’t know what my future holds, or that I am not OK.

    There is something about opening my mouth and letting the words come out that feels too dangerous. Like once I say them, they become real. Like once someone hears them, they can decide what to do with them. They can hold them gently, or they can use them against me.

    So, I write.

    I write because the page doesn’t interrupt me. It doesn’t look confused. It doesn’t tell me I’m overthinking. It doesn’t say, “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

    Maybe this is what healing looks like for me right now.

    Not standing in front of someone with a steady voice and perfectly chosen words.

    Maybe healing is typing a blog post with shaky hands. Maybe it’s pressing publish before I can talk myself out of being known. Maybe it’s letting someone read the truth, because saying it feels impossible.

    Please… don’t make me say it.

    Just read it. Carefully.

  • Survival Mode

    Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I’m afraid to turn on the kitchen light and start my day. I can feel it on those days, the air is a little bit heavier, and my chest is a little more tight than usual. I’m afraid because I can’t handle any more disappointment.

    Staring at the pile of clean laundry for the 6th day in a row, thinking maybe today is the day that I find the motivation to start folding it. Not sure why it’s so hard to complete the simplest of tasks. The same dishes have been in the sink for a week, but the invisible force is still stopping me from grabbing that Scrub Daddy and getting to work.

    I can handle feeding the dog, the turtle, and the kids. Mostly because they don’t stop reminding me that it’s breakfast time. Sometimes I forget to feed myself, we can call that the survival mode meal plan.

    It’s a couple days later now, because I couldn’t bring myself to open my laptop and stare at the screen feeling sorry for myself. 100 job applications later and I’m left wondering what’s wrong with me? What does everyone else have that I don’t? Most of them don’t even reject me. They just disappear into whatever corporate void eats resumes and self-confidence.

    I can feel the man I manifested slowly pulling away, or maybe my brain interprets uncertainty as abandonment, and then sets itself on fire. I’m not sure if it’s because of something I said or did, or if he also shuts everyone out when he’s dealing with hard things. That’s another thing I keep crying about, but I would never tell him that. It’s not his fault, I fell too hard, too fast. I wish he would believe me when I look him in the eyes and tell him that he will be ok.

    What did I do in a past life to deserve this one? What perfect storm of personality traits came together to create this shit show in my brain that self-sabotages everything I’ve ever had? Will I ever get my happy ending? What one decision did I make that set forth this current path? Can it be un-done?

    I stopped believing in God in high school, and “Oh my God, ” “Jesus Christ,” and “God Dammit” are staples in my vocabulary. Manifested man and I were laying in his bed the other night, and I said , “Oh my god!” He put his finger over my lips and whispered “Gosh. Oh my gosh.” Despite the… pleasure of the situation, I almost started crying. This man who was going through so much, still had enough faith to not use the Lord’s name in vain.

    I started thinking that maybe I should start praying again. Maybe I should open my mind, and maybe not blindly believe, but maybe pray that God does exist, and that he will lead me down the right path. I just know that living in survival mode, like I have been for the past decade, is not sustainable.

    I want to believe in fate, and destiny, but I can’t even see my own future anymore. I want to believe that what manifested man and I have is meant to last, because I have never felt so connected to someone. I just feel everything slipping away. That’s what always happens. I don’t know if this is rock bottom, a detour, or just another Monday. I just know I can’t keep calling this survival and pretending it’s a life.

    ✨ Spark Note:

    If anyone needs me, I’ll be staring at the clean laundry and waiting for one of us to make the first move.

    So far, it’s a stalemate.
    ✨

  • Friday, You Fell Apart, Saturday, I’m In Love.

    Manifested man said to me today, “You know you’re a great person, and good things happen to good people…” I responded with, “You are my good thing.”

    The past 5 days have really been a test for both of us. Not sure many more negative things could’ve happened, but those things are not for the internet. I’m also not sure many more positive things could have happen, because not only am I a girlfriend (officially) but I am in love.

    I have never felt for a person, the way I feel for Manifested Man. I just want to make him happy, and I want to treat him how he deserves to be treated. Somehow, I’ve already had to be the supportive, loving girlfriend before I am even technically his girlfriend. And fuck– have I mentioned that I’m in love?

    Friday was a terrible day. It didn’t start off that way, but the stars aligned, and I felt helpless from states away while MM had to deal with am absolute buffet of bullshit. Saturday was more traumatic for me, I think. There was crying, and Googling and ChatGPT-ing… and when I finally got to comfort him at dinner time, that’s when it happened. I wasn’t expecting it, I’ll admit, but when he said, “I have to tell you something.” I didn’t get that feeling of dread like I’ve felt 1,000 times in the past. I knew what came next was really going to matter.

    He sent me a video, and with the sincerest look on his face, all he said was, “I love you.” I have tears in my eyes just typing this, you bet your ass I cried like a baby when I saw it. Without hesitation, I replied “I love you too, [redacted]”

    He was supposed to fly home that night, but with all the happenings, he pushed his flight back by a day, which was fine. I just knew time was going to drag until I got to see him.

    In the morning we made plans. His flight landed at around 10pm, and with the drive home, he would be back at around 11:30. I volunteered to get to his house a bit before he’d be home, so I could play with the dogs, feed them, and I also planned to clean up a bit so he’d not come home to chaos. Waiting until it was time to go to his house was the longest wait of my life.

    Seeing him walk in the door on Sunday night was so relieving. I knew everything was going to be ok. We spent the night watching the UFC America 250 fight, which was fucking great by the way, and then we… well, you know.

    Is it possible that Monday morning be any better? If you could believe it, it was. Not trying to give all the nitty gritty details, but just know… it is way better in the morning.

    After breakfast, I made us some pancakes (see what I did there?)

    We got into MM’s truck so he could bring me home, and as we’re pulling out of his driveway, his neighbor comes outside from across the street and flags him down. “Sorry for bothering you, I just wanted to make sure all the cars coming and going were supposed to be there!” Good to have a neighbor who looks out for your house while you’re away I guess.

    “Yeah no worries, I appreciate it! This is my girlfriend, Lauren.” I said a quick hello and goodbye to the neighbor, with my eyebrows raised and eyes wide… “Wow that’s the first time I’ve referred to you as my girlfriend… get it together [self] you’re 40!”

    I felt really good in that moment. I don’t need a label on whatever this relationship is, and I told him that. I just know that I have been waiting for this man my entire life.

  • Dear Reader, The Bar Was In Hell.

    I’m not exactly sure what my problem was, but up until the past couple years, I let men walk all over me. Maybe I thought I wasn’t worthy, or that it was the best that I could get? Maybe I was colorblind, and that’s why I didn’t see the red flags? In either case, I have learned. The Manifested Man is the first *MAN* (and hopefully the last) that I’ve ever been with.

    I accepted complete fucking nonsense from multiple boys in the past, and here is a compilation of that nonsense. Disclaimer: if something sounds a little too outlandish, it’s likely something I learned about *after the fact*.

    I let a man sell my desktop PC to a pawn shop so he could buy pills. He said he did it because I went on a trip without him and he was mad. That same man PAWNED HIS CAR later on for pills also. I didn’t even know you could do that.

    I stayed with a man who told me that I could not be a cop because I had a family and it was unsafe. That man started a family with me WHILE I WAS IN THE POLICE ACADEMY.

    I let a man check every line of a grocery store receipt to make sure I didn’t spend any money on myself, because he made more money than I did (because i was forced to get a BS job because I “couldn’t” be a cop).

    I let a man tell me that if I got a certain haircut, he would marry me the next day, and then he ghosted me.

    I let a man “load” the dishwasher with bowls face up on the bottom rack, and maybe 7 items total for a “full load”. That same man thought Swiffer-ing was mopping.

    I loved a man who told me he WASN’T READY to move in/get a place with me after dating for 2 whole years. This man still lived at home with his parents and complained about it constantly. THIS MAN WAS ALSO 40 YEARS OLD.

    I stayed with a man who complained about my toddler being cranky on our trip to Hawaii (that I paid for). I also let that man complain about making him contribute to the trip, after he told me he would want to contribute to the trip.

    I believed a man who told me he would be over at 11, didn’t show up until 2 because he was “tired” and then proceed to cut our plans short by a few hours for no reason at all.

    I let a man come spend the weekend with me, we went to Seaworld, the movies etc, and then after he went home (to a different state), he told me he wasn’t ready for a relationship. We met on a dating app.

    I let a man, whom I was engaged to, come on a trip with me to Vegas, and then get mad when I said I didn’t want to get married in a chapel. Away from our kids and family.

    I let a man tell me he loved me after talking FOR A WEEK, and then I was surprised when he then told me HE WASN’T READY FOR A RELATIONSHIP.

    I stayed with a man accuse me of cheating on him and start a fight with me out of nowhere while I was on patrol, and got me so upset that I had to hide in the station because I couldn’t stop crying.

    I trusted a man to use a brand-new car that I bought after he totaled his, and then he gave it to his drug dealer who then got in a police chase and destroyed the car.

    I accepted a man who cornered me in my bedroom and screamed at me from 3 inches away (because he got caught CHEATING) while I held my newborn baby.

    I survived a man who pointed a gun at my head because he was mad that I found out he was hooking up with men for money behind my back, and when I called 911 the deputy that showed up didn’t believe me.

    I let a man teach me that I am worthy of love, and patience, and that I deserve the world.

  • The Peephole

    I have lived in my apartment since October 2025. I have known my next door and downstairs neighbors since the day I moved in, because I made 12 metric tons of noise trying to drag all my shit up a flight of stairs by myself.

    It didn;t take long to realized that the folks next door are the type of couple who don’t stop yelling at each other until the break of dawn, which is fantastic.

    Lately, for whatever reason, I have been opening my front door at the exact moment that my neighbors are, or while they’re standing on the landing about to go downstairs. It is painfully awkward, and ya girl really hates an awkward moment (I will literally inconvenience myself to avoid thirty seconds of uncomfortable small talk), so I’ve started checking my peephole before opening the door. The only problem is, my peephole is blocked. By what? beats me, but all I can see is black when I look into it.

    It’s not painted over on either end, unless the folks who lived here before me stuck a small brush into the actual hole…

    So instead of peeping through the hole, I crack my front door and slowly and quietly as possible to check for the neighbors before the kids and I come barreling outside.

    Today I had a couple things I had to do, like take out the trash and check the mail. Well, wouldn’t you know it, I swung the door open while holding a bag full of trash, and the first thing I see is an unfamiliar man standing on my landing!

    I fucking screamed, y’all.

    I, a former cop, gun toting badass, SCREAMED like a little girl.

    The poor guy was there collecting the trash, and he jumped so high I thought he was going to hit the roof. I immediately apologized profusely, probably too much, because the dude was just staring at me like I was certifiably insane.

    So now I have two problems. My peephole still doesn’t work. My neighbors probably think I’mcrazy.

    And somewhere out there is a trash collector telling his coworkers about the woman in apartment [redacted] who opened her front door and screamed directly into his soul.

    I’m going to let the kids answer the door from now on. They can deal with the uncertainty while I hide behind them.