Well, Fuck.

Chapter One

When you find out you're having kids, nobody tells you what it really is. People say it's magical, brings light into your life, and strengthens your relationship with your spouse. Truth is, it actually tears your marriage apart, right in front of your eyes, and all you can do is blink helplessly and watch.

While this might not be accurate for all couples, it was for me, and I'm going to be as salty about as I can possibly be. You may call it negative, pessimistic, or toxic to my aura, some shit like that, but it's not gonna stop me. I've been wallowing in self despair for five years, and I'm not about to stop bitching now.

That's why I'm lying in my bed, alarm clock blaring and red light blinking, instead of getting up like a responsible human being and dealing with the hardships of the world. I've been blankly staring upwards for about three minutes (I know, I've been counting) in the name of meditation, watching the blurred blades of my ceiling fan turn sluggishly. It squeaked and wobbled every time it made full circle, shaking the small metal chain and the wind chimes fixed to the motor. If Tiziana were here, she would've punched me already, and shoved me off the bed.

A sudden knee to the side knocked the wind out of my lungs, my throat making an awful wheezing noise that of a deflating balloon. It called upon a sudden wave of nostalgia, the taste of blood clinging to my teeth, red, angry heat burning my skin and lungs, the smell of musty sweat and pent up rage. Ah, I missed being a teenager. I thought it was hard then, which to be fair, it was, but nothing can be much worse than my current situation.

Divorced, stranded with three kids, and bunking with my best friend.

Yep, living the dream.

I caught my breathe a few seconds later, my voice still strained from the extremely uncalled for assault, and choked out a "fuck you". My hand blindly hit the snooze button, cutting off the high pitched shrieking and rave lights, then searching the nightstand for my glasses. I ended up knocking over a mug of freezing cold, untouched tea (Tiziana's Shinji Mug™ her girlfriend and my sister bought her last christmas) and a fake potted succulent.

Cursing Tiziana for being a tumblr loving fuck, I finally found my 15 year old spectacles and stopped fondling the poor side table. I slipped them on, every hazy shape focusing into something less horrifying and more mundane, then reluctantly sat up. I glared at a frowning Tiziana, who had a body pillow locked in a professional wrestling move, and kicked off the sheets in the loudest way possible. I may be thirty one years old and way past my prime, but I'm still going to be the hugest fucking brat in existence.

The monster of a woman stirred, mumbling something about beating my ass with some asparagus, and was lulled back into sleep. I rubbed my eyes, feeling the mascara and liner from Jacob's late night makeover smudge, and basked in the bliss of colors erupting underneath my eyelids. All at the same time, I clambered out of bed, the cold wooden floors creaking under my weight. The minuscule spaces between the boards pinched my feet, rushing me faster to the bathroom rug, where I was safe from dead, temperamental trees.

I kicked the door shut, my reflection on the wall mirroring my actions, and leaped onto the green, toothpaste stained mat. The coarse knit wore into something much softer over the years, welcoming the agitated souls of my feet with a warmth I sighed at. God, I love carpet.

Reaching for the face wash, I stopped myself and groaned quietly, opening Tiziana's makeup removing wipes. I veraciously tore out a cloth and scrubbed off the residual foundation and eyeshadow, puckering my lips with distaste as the chemicals coated my skin. I don't know how people do it, makeup is the absolute worse.

Once the white was riddled with brown, black, and red, I tossed it into the trash. I meet eyes with my dark circles and age spots, then remembered what was so amazing about makeup. I shook my head, taking off my glasses and placing them far enough so water wouldn't splash on the lenses and dry there, obscuring my vision. The water rushed out of the faucet the second I turned the handle, gushing onto my hands, overflowing through soft streams or bouncing off with sharp droplets. I leaned over the basin and brought my palms to my face, feeling all the dirt and chemicals slip off my skin.