Lisa
Jesus fuckin' Christ. I'm 30 years old. Nearly middle-aged. Fuck, wait. Am I already middle-aged? If I do another 30 years I'll be 60. Decent innings in a mafia family. Fuck. I'm middle-aged.
What am I doing, at 30 fucking years old, going out and getting munted on a school night? Mind you, every night is a school night these days. I don't exactly get to clock off for the weekend. Especially not when my shit of a brother goes completely MIA when he is supposed to be at least pretending to run the show.
Despite taking more than the recommended dose of painkillers before leaving home, my head is pounding. My throat is drier than the Sahara even though I distinctly remember force-feeding myself a liter of water before I hit the hay last night. Worst of all, no matter how thoroughly I showered this morning and how much perfume I have doused myself in, any perspiring I do today will smell like beer and whatever spirits Az was handing me once we got to Peacocks.
I grabbed a coffee on the way into our office building in town, but the caffeine hasn't helped as much as I had hoped. Or at all. I haven't touched drugs for about five years now, but Christ, a bump or two of coke wouldn't go amiss today.
Usually, I'd enjoy looking out at the view from our obnoxious glass elevator, but today I face inwards towards the doors because I'm scared I'll projectile vomit the remains of my greasy drive-thru breaky at the sight of the world disappearing below.
What a hot mess.
Odds are this could turn into a two-day hangover as well. Who am I kidding, could be a triple-day torture.
This is my punishment, or maybe my penance, for giving into temptation and allowing myself to get into trouble with Roseanne last night. I clearly cannot be trusted to have any alcohol around her.
Last night I played with fire. But those eyes. Those pouty lips. Her legs in that leather skirt. Fuck me sideways.
It's been a while since I felt out of control like I did last night. Giving in to my emotional or physiological yearnings isn't something I have the luxury of doing anymore. Not when they center around Roseanne Park anyway.
It is in my nature to maintain dominance, and control, and to be in charge. I need control to operate, to survive. I'm sure a therapist would have a field day delving into the reasons why that is.
Even before Dad dumped everything on me and Mark, my responsibilities to the Family required total discipline. I've learnt the importance of knowing everything about everyone, in any room, at any given time so that when I make a move it is informed.
My world is often chaotic and I find calm in directing traffic, in command of the strings I'm pulling. Mitigating risk factors and crossing out potential vulnerabilities is calming in itself.
The gym is almost a spiritual place for me. It represents structure, routine, and discipline. I've always used exercise as an outlet for stress and it shows in my body. Every muscle has been carefully developed by focused regimes and strict adherence to a nutritional diet.
I'm well aware that my friends call me uptight and the control I exert over myself is often not appreciated when I wield it over others. But now the survival of the Family depends on me and my discipline.
Usually, I can shake off a girl who is being too keen. Communicate my disinterest in blunt terms. Get on with things. But as much as Roseanne is way too keen on me, I'm just as much too keen on her.
