Dichotomy.

Truce.

I’m not sure how long that will last.

I can tell off the bat it’ll be harder than it seems.

He’s just so…

Indescribably frustrating.

The one thing I’m grateful for is that Spencer and Brendon don’t have an official merch person, so Tom was first pick at my immediate suggestion.

The truth is, I pretty much volunteered him without asking first.

As if he has anything better to do.

I might be able to survive this tour with him there.

“He can’t be that bad,” Tom tries to console me. I’m leaning against my kitchen counter, and he’s going through my fridge, eating everything in sight.

And I’m hating that his stupid girl jeans are probably a size smaller than mine.

“Is he cute, at least?” he asks, through a mouthful of cold pepperoni pizza.

“Who the fuck cares? So what if he’s cute!” I retort in annoyance.

Just because I think he’s good-looking, doesn’t negate how I hate his obnoxiousness.

“Just asking,” he mutters under his breath, put off by my irritated scowl. And I swear he’s added a quiet ‘bitch’ to the statement afterwards. I frown, very much ready to snap at him, when Rigby trots over on his little legs to us, his tail wagging happily as he waits for our attention.

I sigh, my annoyance receding as I cross the room and pick up his water bowl to refill.

The truth is, is everyone on earth abandoned me, at least I’d have my little dachshund to cheer me up.

“You’re bitchier than usual today,” Tom comments, and he’s back in my fridge, looking for more cold pizza.

The thing that’s great about Rigby is that he’s the only one that doesn’t think I’m a bitch.
“My mom invited me over for dinner,” I explain sulkily, and that should explain my mood well enough.

“Bummer,” he replies.

I don’t want pity, but I don’t want his tactless indifference, either.

I want to hit him.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

My eyes flick to the clock for the third time in the past ten minutes.

“Linda says she has a spot open at the store if you ever wanted it back,” she adds conversationally.

The truth is, I want to gag at the thought of going back to the snooty, expensive, French dinnerware shop I worked at all through college and then to pay the rent in between tours after I dropped out.

“I have a job,” I remind her. I poke at my salad.

I’m looking down at the silverware and dishes from the fancy store, and I’m wondering if they’re actually European or if it’s one of the ones with the ‘made in China’ stickers removed from the bottom.

“Right. Music,” she waves her hand dismissively. “You haven’t grown out of that yet?”

The truth is, I’ve toured around the country in a shitty van and an occasional nice bus filled with guys, and my mother still treats me like the little twelve year old girl that begged for a guitar for Christmas.

“No…mom.”

“Oh. Well I’ll just tell Linda to hold the spot, just in case,” she says dismissively. “You know how unstable musician’s ‘jobs’ are.”

I want to stab myself with a salad fork, but I settle for rolling my eyes at her.

She doesn’t notice.

She never has.

“I don’t suppose musicians have time to finish college?”

Rewind to before my parents got divorced and my mother wasn’t such a passive-aggressive psycho-bitch.