Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

energy attached to it. Too many painful memories. If you need
another dress in the future, you buy a fresh one. You don’t
keep the one that makes you cry every time you look at it.
Right?”
When I hesitate, she repeats loudly, “Right?”
I blow out a hard breath so hard, my lips flap. “Fine. Yes.
You’re right.”
“Of course I am. Now take a shower, get dressed, and put
some food in your stomach. I’ll be over in an hour.”
I mutter, “Yes, Mother.”
“Don’t sass me, young lady, or you’re grounded.”
“Ha.”
“And I’ll take away all your electronic devices.” She
snickers. “Especially the vibrating ones.”
I say without heat, “You’re a terrible friend.”
“You’ll thank me later. You probably can’t even have an
orgasm with a real penis anymore because you’ve been
hammering your vagina with all those power tools. Your cooch
is a construction zone.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Don’t forget to eat!”
I disconnect the call without replying. We both know I’ll
be eating a liquid breakfast this morning.
Five years. How I’ve survived this long, I don’t know.
I drag myself out of bed, take a shower, and get dressed.
When I head to the kitchen, I find Mojo lying like a big
shaggy rug in front of the refrigerator, smiling in my direction.
“Do you need to go pee before breakfast, buddy?”
He pants and thumps his tail but doesn’t move, indicating
his preference.
The dog has a bladder the size of an aboveground pool. If
he wasn’t so solid, I’d think he has a hollow leg or two where
he stores all his pee.