Sluts in Love

"Exactly eighteen years, eight months, and three weeks ago I was conceived."

"That's disgusting."

"I hear childbirth is the most beautiful thing in the world. It actually feels like the women are breaking every bone in their body, but I guess they don't mind doing it again and again. After all, the world is just overrun by people."

She blows a ring of smoke in my face. I slap the hand that's holding her cigarette. "Your poor mother," is all I say but really, how can I feel bad considering I have no one to compare her mother to?

"When I was young my father told me he'd buy me a pony for my birthday," this grabs my attention because she never talks about her whacked up father. "He told me that the days leading up to my birthday until I was ten. And then..." and then your father landed himself in jail and your brother started to rot six feet under. She doesn't have to say it but I know.

I pat the front of my jeans and pull out a quarter from my front pocket. "Happy anniversary of the day you came into the world. This cruel, fucked up world," I place it on the space next to her. "Don't spend it all at once, you hear?"

She holds it to her chest and like it's a newborn puppy. Fucking weirdo. "I'll treasure it forever," see what I mean?

"Yeah. Well. Are we going to the Shack or what?" I'm getting impatient. It's nearly eight on a Friday night, I have to do something. The sedimentary lifestyle is not for me.

"Dylan's taking me out, actually." Maybe it's because I took too many Blue Heaven before, but that stings. It plain old fucking stings.

"So, what? You're picking that dickwad over me again?" My stomach feels like I just swallowed a fifty pound weight. God, what is going on?

"Don't be upset, babe. We still have tomorrow."

"I'm not upset, babe." I sneer. God, I hate her. "I just don't understand the appeal you see in that ass face."

"His name is Dylan. Not moron, not ass face, and certainly not 'fucking Romeo.' Dylan Alexander Romeo. And he is just a lost spirit on this Earth seeking love and comfort, of which I'm able to provide." I can't believe. I feel like crying like a little bitch. And then I reached the point of no return.

"What the fuck do you know about love? Your mom hates you, your dad only liked you for your nine year old body, and your brother killed himself instead of having to deal with you. You think that's love?" if Monty was here, he'd ask me what I was accomplishing by bring all that up. Then he'd tell me that I crossed the line.

Well Monty, I don't see no motherfucking line.

Juliet stares at me. The lack of any emotion on her face only solidifies my indifference about mentioning her entire fucked up family.

"If my mom's asleep on your way out, tell her the washing machine stopped working again, would you?"

I stand up from her bed and slowly retreat out the room. She's like a wild animal that's eerily calm and you don't want to make any sudden moves. "Sure, Juliet. Sure. I'll tell your mother your fucking washing machine's too fucking broken to work. And maybe on my way home I'll take a back alley way and some fifty year old dude without teeth will mug me, and since I just gave you my last quarter, he'll pull out a gun and shoot me." I idle outside her door with my hand resting on the door knob. She hasn't moved except to pull on a sweatshirt. She doesn't even look at me.

"Cheer up, kid. Maybe while you're at it, your Dylan will get into another accident. Born and died on April sixth, that'll make quite the story."