I never really appreciated the businesses open twenty-four hours a day, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year until Iâ€™d stopped going out when the sun was up. But Iâ€™d come to find this necessity such a relief, I was close to sending the good people at Thrifty Corporate offices a thank you note. I could leave my house at midnight and buy a big ass bottle of quality gin, a pint of the best mint chocolate chip ice cream in the world, and a jumbo sized bottle of weed killer.
The guy at the cash register made a point of eyeing my products. So much so, for a split second, I wondered if Iâ€™d forgotten to wear pants. He had an obnoxious, patronizing smirk plastered to his face when he asked, â€œBig night planned?â€
His customer service skills left a lot to be desired and I was in no mood to take shit from anyone. So, I gave it to him honestly.
â€œOh yeah,â€ I enthused, trying to remember if Iâ€™d brushed my teeth that day. â€œFirst,â€ I said holding up a single finger, â€œIâ€™m gonna get drunk. Second,â€ I continued with two fingers and noticed he was staring at my chest, â€œIâ€™m gonna murder the plant my husband gave to me.â€ Thatâ€™s about the time his eyes met mine again. â€œAnd for my big finale,â€ I patted the tub of ice-cream lovingly, â€œIâ€™m gonna eat my feelings.â€
He had no response, whatsoever, to my smart ass comments or manner, so I took my items, leaned in on my elbows, and gave him some solid, retail advice. â€œYou know, itâ€™s just a normal Saturday night for any single girl. Put these three items on a primary end-cap and watch the sales soar.â€
Again, he didnâ€™t find me funny. I thought I was fucking hilarious.
A few hours later, I was on my fourth homemade Hendrick’s cocktail. This consisted of gin and diet coke because these were the things I had in the house. Not to mention the jar of maraschino cherries which made for a lovely garnish. Sometime after my third drink, Iâ€™d gotten into Nickâ€™s CDâ€™s. With cocktail number four in my hand, I stood in my front yard, Donâ€™t Stop Believing blaring through the open windowsâ€”on repeatâ€”and looked at the mess Iâ€™d made. My previous plan for the night was to simply shut my broken heart up by drowning it in liquor, then drowning that plant with poison. I thoughtâ€¦if I killed the plant, I could somehow move on from the pain. But the closer I got to home, my plan morphed into something a little moreâ€¦sinister. The gin helped, of course, but I had two years of livid, confused emotions chomping at the bit for release.
I walked into the shed and saw the area dedicated to the care of that Plumeria. I filled the wheelbarrow with big sheers and a shovel. My intention to release the plant from the earth was foiled by rock hard soil which required me to soften it up with a little water. While a shallow pond formed around my flip-flop clad feet, I gave the offensive blooms their last trim and final rites.
â€œForeverâ€™s a long time, isnâ€™t it little flowers? I bet you thought that nice man would take care of you until the end of time?â€ Then I opened the bottle of weed killer and poured it on top of the neat pile of blooms. â€œWrong, wrong, wrong!â€ I said, shaking my head as I bathed them in poison.
I donâ€™t know which one of my concerned neighbors called the cops. But if it had been me, and I knew what happened to that poor woman in the blue house, I would have minded my own fucking business and hoped she only had one night of power ballads in her.