In my defense, I was very drunk, very heartbroken, and very much not expecting to drag home a half-dead vampire like some goth raccoon who’s hoarding bad decisions.

I should have kept walking. I should have ignored the man slumped against the alley wall, blood darkening his shirt. I should have known that a creature with eyes like his wasn’t meant to be saved.

There’s also a particular kind of regret that comes with realizing you’ve just invited an apex predator into your home. It’s somewhere between “I shouldn’t have texted my ex” and “let’s see if the week-old milk is still good.”

Fair warning: if you’re looking for a heroine who doesn’t swear, has her life together, and doesn’t make questionable decisions daily, you’ve come to the wrong place.

Otherwise, strap yourself into the shitshow they call my life and hold on to your granny panties – this is going to be a bumpy ride.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

That two-timing, butt-munching, flea-invested douche-canoe!

The bartender across from me is staring at me like I’m the creature from the blue lagoon. Probably because my lips and tongue are stained azure from the six blue curacao and lemonade cocktails I’ve sucked down in the past hour.

I know what you’re thinking – how is she still sitting upright after so much alcohol? Well, my lovelies, this curvy girl’s size and fast metabolism has helped me drink seasoned alcoholics under the table when the time called for it. Yay me!

That doesn’t mean I’m not feeling the effects, though. I have a distinct suspicion that when I finally decide to lift my ass from this barstool, my equilibrium is not going to be top-notch. Oh well, I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.

I should have known when I woke up this morning, and my coffee machine was on the fritz, that shit was going to get rough today. That machine has been my partner in crime through two years of college, moving house four times and many mornings of hangovers or one-night stands.

As soon as I switched it on this morning, there was a sudden spark before the back of the contraption burst into flames. I was stunned for all of two seconds before I realized that I was the only adult in the house, and it was my responsibility to stop the fire from spreading and my whole house from burning to the ground.

Luckily, I remembered that according to Professor Google, you should use baking soda to smother an electrical fire, not water, like in usual cases. So, I rushed to my pantry and grabbed the box that had rarely been used (because I can’t bake for shit) and doused that fucking fire like my life depended on it. Come to think of it, my life did depend on it. Huh.

My second clue should have been when my newest employee quit via Instagram DM. Very professional, I know.

A week ago, she begged me to look past her young age and give her a chance. This would also be her first job. I reluctantly agreed because I remembered that I once, too, was a new addition to the workforce and struggled to find someone to believe in me. And look at how that turned out.

Calling the bartender over, I slide my empty glass towards him, “Another, please, barkeep.”

“What! Why?” I ask, outraged, realizing my volume control button might be broken when a few heads swivel my way. Oh, bite me.

I look at him warily because this policy sounds like a load of bullshit to me. Is he trying to get rid of me without offending me? Some Karen probably complained about the large, fat single lady who was drowning her sorrows in vats of alcohol. Well, fuck you, Karen.

Turning around to mix my drink, I catch him rolling his eyes at me. He’s probably fed up with drunk customers who think copious amounts of alcohol will solve their problems. Judgy much?

Sipping on my last cocktail of the night, I think back to the moment I walked into Steven’s apartment to find him balls-deep in my previously mentioned ex-employee. Yeah, you heard me right.

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