Another installment of The Night Series.

I’m sitting at home, hand in cast, wondering just how my life went from mundane and pleasurably predictable to wild and crazy and so out-of-control. I’ve just got a Steve Martin circa late ‘70’s kind of life. Then I get this message:

So, once- dear-Dominic, I both agree and disagree with your message.

I agree: I will never find another love just like yours. I hope the probability is nil. Utter disbelief bangs in my head when I read your words. What planet does someone like you come from that you think I would even harbor the faintest desire to rekindle anything with you?

I’m having a hard time even looking at Damien because of you. I think Damien really is a nice guy, but right now? The thought that you and him are blood-related makes my stomach clench with nausea. Vomititis!

So, what do I disagree with? I forget. Let me re-read it.

Oh, yeah! Nice trumps smart right now. I think you aren’t very good at reading character anyway. Thus, Tansy. On the other hand, you and Tansy equal a match made in hell and deserve each other. (That poor baby. Maybe it will come out of the womb and will telekinetically control its own abduction and then be fostered by the Royal Family or the Dalai Lama or even Kanye and Kim would be a better alternative. One can hope!)

Please, no more messages. Nada. Nothing. Zip-zero.

You made your own bed with your-friend-with-benefits reap what you sow. Ugh. Go blow. Oof. Karma’s a killah. Sheesh.

Piss off!!!!

Yep.

Never yours. Ever. At all. Clare.

Do I dare send it? Oh, what the hell does it matter now?

SENT

end 9/28/2016 (2)

Sascha Darlington