Boy Meets Girl

Journal of Kate Mackenzie

Help.

Pain. Intense pain, radiating from behind eye sockets. Can barely move.

What HAPPENED? Oooooh, writing in capitals is hurting my eyes. But really . . . what DID happen last night? It’s all starting to come back, but only in patches. I remember . . . Skiboy. I remember Skiboy being really nice to me.

But why? Why would Skiboy be nice to me? He’s Dolly’s boyfriend. Something to do with my job, I know but . . .

Ooooh. That’s right. I have no job. I have no job anymore. Which is good, because it’s . . . 12:45 in the afternoon, which means if I did have a job, I would be three hours and forty-five minutes late for it now.

Amy. Amy fired me. That stupid cow. I can’t believe she did that.

Jen. Did Jen come over last night? I seem to dimly remember—

Oh. My. God.

Jen did come over last night. To check on me. But so did—

MITCH HERTZOG!

Mitch Hertzog came over last night to check on me. Only I was PLASTERED. And . . . oh my God. I think I threw up on him.

Okay. Okay, deep breath. Just get to the phone. Just get to the phone to call Jen and see if I really did throw up on Mitch Hertzog. Maybe it was all a bad dream. . . .

It wasn’t a dream. I just got off phone with Jen. I really did throw up on Mitch Hertzog. On his shoes, no less.

Oh! And he had on really nice shoes! They were wingtips. Jen says there were chunks of vomit stuck in the little punched-out places. . . .

To which all I can say is . . . Good.

Oh, God. If I had anything left to throw up, I’d throw it up now.

WHY did I let Skiboy fix me all those drinks? Why didn’t I just say no? Oh my God, now on top of being homeless, jobless, and boyfriendless, I’m an alcoholic. They’re going to have to send me to the Betty Ford Clinic.

Only I can’t afford to go there, because I don’t have any health insurance, because I lost my job.

Jen says Mitch was really very kind and concerned about me last night. Great. The person who is responsible for getting me fired was kind and concerned about me last night. As I was yakking on his shoes.

WHY didn’t I see any of this coming? Not the being-hung-over-from-drinking-with-Skiboy thing. The losing-my-job thing. My God, I just WALKED into it, didn’t I? Amy’s little trap.

Of course, I had an excellent guide steering me along . . . Mr. Mitch Hertzog.

Hertzog. God. It evensounds as if I’m hurling up an evening’s worth of vodka and tonics when I say it. Hertzog. Hertzog. Amy HURTS OGG.

Oh God, I wish I were dead.