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One of the geckos didn’t make it, and I shed at least four tears for the tiny guy. I guess I’m just in my feels–or maybe I’m just a lizard person. Not the conspiracy kind. More like the equivalent of a dog person, but for lizards. Who knows?
Lennon texted me to remind me how much she loves me, and that she can’t wait to stop by my house when she gets back from her trip, and that somehow made me feel worse–not better.
The popsicle drips onto the front of my shirt, and I look down at the red stain at my stomach. I didn’t mean to tie-dye the thing with food and drink today, but I guess we don’t always get what we want.
Like quality time on our birthdays.
What a stupid love language to have, anyway.
The clock ticks in the kitchen, and I decide I’m done with the popsicle. It’s not like I haven’t had two others already, and I’m a grown-ass woman. It’s time to start acting like it.
Getting up, I go to the kitchen where I toss the thing in the trash can and pull out my phone after feeling it buzz in my pocket.
Lennon:I’m sorry you’ll be alone on your birthday, boo. You should throw yourself the biggest party, or better yet, hire an event planner to do it for you.
I chuckle, tapping the marble counter before typing out my response.
Me:Yes, I’ll just hire someone to plan me a day. It’ll be the very peak of my entire existence. Not sad at all.
I look at the text, lingering for a moment before pressing send.
While I meant it to be a joke, the seed of a thought grows in my mind. Technically speaking, I could just hire someone to plan a day for me. Maybe there’s a sad freelancer who wouldn’t mind putting together a solo birthday bash before Christmas.
I roll my tongue against my cheek, staring at my phone and questioning my sanity.
It would be pitiful.
It would be absolutely ridiculous.
It would prove that I’m a friendless oaf in desperate need of a life–or possibly a few dozen cats. Or lizards.
It would be rock bottom, and I wouldn’t even have a divorce or a need to file bankruptcy to show for it.
The clock continues ticking, and I finally open up a web page.
I drag the name of a freelance site from the very depths of my memory. I remember using it when I ordered character art for Lennon a few years back. She’d gotten it in her head that she wanted to write a book, and like the supportive friend I am, I ordered art of the male love interest for her. He was very hot because of course he was.
Why would I order character art and make him ugly?
She never finished writing the book, but at least we had a hot guy to show for it.
I click around, trying to figure out the website before I realize I can post a job.
“Can’t hurt,” I mutter.
After crafting a description where I try to sound less pathetic and less sorry for myself, I realize the task is hopeless and put it to rest. I post the sad paragraph anyway.
As it turns out, I’m going to be hiring someone to plan me a birthday day.
Just to prove I’m not some weird creep on the internet, I snap a photo of myself and add it as my profile picture. It’s a little dark, and I definitely look tired, but it will have to do.
When I hear the door open, I startle like a teenager who is about to be caught watching Peeta Mellark edits in their room at two am.
Which is stupid because who doesn’t watch those?
B and Brian make their way into the kitchen where I’m standing, taking in the state of the house.
When B looks around to see no blood, a tidy living room, and a trampoline now properly stored in the closet, she smiles. That is until she spots the three popsicle wrappers decorating the countertop.
