It’s nine o clock.
My [written above: "second"] boyfriend and his cousin are out prostituting themselves. He told me they were running errands. He calls it this because he doesn’t know that I know where all [scribbled out: "the" above "that"] [above: "this"] money is coming from. He thinks I don’t know that’s not his cousin. That Santa isn’t real. That one day, my parents will die.
I lay on the guest room bed watching a tape of a soap opera I found on top of the VCR and eating pink ice cream I’ve had out for so long it’s melted and looks like nail polish. The carton is between my legs and I’m spread out like I’m giving birth. For the bottle-blonde on the screen, the one actually giving birth, having a kid in real life would be a dream. She’s really forty-five, but on soap operas everyone is twenty-four for at least a decade. The children become teenagers in a matter of months, but the parents never age.