Page 17 of Her Goal
date: September 17, 7:53?PM
subject: Revenge bedtime procrastination
Dear Dumb Butt,
Sometimes it’s hard to find the words … what to say when someone cuts you off in traffic or ruins your plans. Lucky for me, I have you.
How does it feel that every time something bad happens or goes poorly, your stupid face floats into my mind?
It’s so amazing that you single-handedly ruined my life in high school, but I’m so thankful that I now have someone whom I can direct all my hatred toward like a laser beam. It’s a relief, actually. I cut my finger the other day. After work, when I took off the damp bandage, I imagined that’s how you smell and look under all that goalie gear: stinky and shriveled.
Ew. The thought is making me feel like I need to barf in my mouth. See what you do to me?
If you must know, today, I stubbed my toe (it might be broken), my car was stolen (it’s since been recovered), and I was nearly arrested (unrelated to the aforementioned).
I hope your day was just as lousy. If not, find a ladder to walk under or a mirror to break—and just know that I’ll be watching to see the seven years of bad luck roll in!
Yours truly,
Your Secret Adversary
Fluffing my pillows,I close my eyes and promptly fall asleep.
The next morning, I wake refreshed and ready for another day at O’Neely’s.
As I pop to my feet, plug in my chili string lights, and click the electric kettle, I realize that airing my grievances last night worked like a charm. My brain shut off and I was able to sleep—though I dreamt that I was in a hockey rink made entirely of candy—the pucks were marshmallows and the ice was chocolate. But a particular goalie was guarding the pretzels—my favorite.
It’s nearly fall. Maybe later I’ll get a hot cocoa … find Hudson and dump it on him. Kidding! I’m just joking.
After Bible time and coffee, I shower and get ready. One of the rules I learned, thanks to a social media influencer, is not to look at my phone for the first thirty minutes of the day. Because I’m an overachiever—okay, not really, but it takes a while to do my hair and makeup—I push it to nearly an hour.
Today, I put my newly blonde hair in a topknot, slide in some hoop earrings, and don my work T-shirt and black pants. After swiping on mascara and lipstick, I tell myself it’s okay to indulge in a few minutes of social scrolling. You know, just to catchup since I’ll be occupied for the next eight hours. Also, I don’t want to miss anything important like the cool vinyl purse brand that’s dropping their latest design, the daily meme trend, so I’m not left out of any inside jokes, or the photos from my friend Danica’s birthday brunch that I missed.
First, I check my email. Expecting only a few more than the nine hundred and ninety I had yesterday, I see that the new magic number is a thousand and one.
Go me!
It’s probably too early to be this sarcastic, but it’s one way to avoid the overwhelm that threatens me from all sides, including the little black device that seems to read my mind while polluting it at the same time.
Among my emails, I have a link for a workshop on how to tackle digital clutter somewhere in there, but finding it means sifting through the aforementioned mountain of correspondence. I make a deal with myself to tackle ten. The first is a newsletter including a discount from a razor-of-the-month company I don’t recall subscribing to. The next features twenty-four things to do with lettuce. Then the third is …
I tuck my chin. This can’t be right. I emailed Hudson from my junk mail account last night. When I officially became an adult, I started using a system I learned that involves keeping three different email addresses. One is for family and friends, the next is for bills and business-type things, and the third is for newsletters, subscriptions, and discounts.
The beauty of the method is that they all funnel directly to my main inbox, so I don’t have to log in at three different places. Unfortunately for me, I never got to the part of the program that explains how to organize them, so I don’t have a thousand emails all in one place. It had something to do with folders and tabs, but if I recall, it was at that point I decided to try a new planner system recommended to me by Jess. She’s big into the bulletmethod and we went shopping to get all the supplies, which are still in the plastic bag hanging on the back of my door.
I open the email and expect that it’s one of those grumbly littlemailer daemonauto-replies that indicate the person no longer has that email address. I imagine a goblin in a dank cellar office with a buzzing fluorescent light typing the message with one finger.
But no.
It’s a letter.
From Hudson.
He’s goblin-like, at six and a half feet tall with an athletic build. I feel bad for whoever has to touch and trim his stylishly tousled dark hair. The man is a mutant with freakishly symmetrical features, a sharp jawline, and full lips with a perpetually obnoxious half-smile.
Don’t get me started on his eyes fringed with dark lashes or that his T-shirt sleeves hug his stupid muscles. Also, I beheld his bare chest, revealing his pecs and abs during our little cat burglar rendezvous. Yeah, the man is definitely a goblin of the hob variety.
from: Hudson Roboveitchek
