The same night as my Little Bo Pussy trauma, something amazing and wonderful happened.  Something small, that would eventually lead to momentous changes in the ultimate course of my life.  But that night I did not know of fate's plans, could not view my ultimate tapestry.  I curled into a ball on my couch, crying pitifully to my friends, feeling as if all hope was dead. 

Recognizing I was in the midst of a crying binge, Harriett arranged an impromptu sleep-over.  She and Lulu huddled around, heaping praise upon my trancelike body.  They each seemed genuinely concerned over my emotionally wrought reaction to my night gone sour with Charles. 

"I give up." (sob sob sniffle sob) "I'm done with love." (waaa chomp chomp whimper whimper)  "I'm finished forever with dating." (gulp gulp wwwhhhhaaawaawwhhhyyyy)  "Why does it have to be so fucking awful?" (whaaaaa chew chew sniffle whaa sob whaa)  I cried tearily from my spot on the couch, between mouthfuls of marshmallows (the only sweet I could find) and gulps of the Relax Riesling Lulu had smartly brought along.

"Okay, please, tell us the whole story Annie.  Tell us what the hell happened?" Lulu begged, dying for details.

"No.  I don't want to think about it," I said, stubbornly.  "Just know that it involved that (I pointed to the Little Bo Peep costume crumpled in a pile on my floor) and a sick couple dressed as...sheep."  I shuddered at the memory of the baaah sounds.   It haunted me and I felt like Clarisse in the horror movie, Silence of the Lambs, trying her damndest to block out the torturous cries of those bloody lambs. 

Lulu laughed and laughed. She laughed so hard and so long that by the time she finished, my mood turned from that of wounded victim to the bitter wrath of a woman without hope. 

"Fuck off, Lulu. This is not funny," I told her, knowing where to place my newfound anger.  "This is your fault with your stupid Summer of lovers idea.  Well, guess what, Lulu?  Your idea, it sucks!  Harriett's heart-broken.  I'm heart-broken.  Our kind can't make it through a summer of lovers.  We die off of broken hearts." 

I wasn't making much sense but it felt so good to feel something other than hurt that I embraced my rage.   "Let's face it," I continued, "the available men our age are broken, or gay, or chasing younger women.  We will all die alone." 

Lulu and Harriett gasped at this bit of information.
"Oh my God, do you think so, Annie?"  Harriett questioned, horrified and on the brink of a genuine panic attack herself.  "Oh my God," she wailed, before casting her body beside me on the couch and joining in my grief.

"Yes, yes, I do think so. I know so in fact.   Well, I know that I will die alone," I amended cautiously.  "Not you, Harriett.  I tried my best to get over Jaime Knox and I failed.  I must submit to my destiny of the crazy, lonely, barren, lady who eventually gets eaten by her cats."  I guzzled more wine. 

"Enough you two," Lulu broke into our hopeless anguish with force. "You are catastraphyzing.  No one's dying alone or dying at all for that matter.  Now Annie, take this," she said producing an antique, silver pill container from her red Hermes bag and plucking out a blue valium from her stash.

Seeing an opportunity for escape from the hell of my reality, I pounced on the pill and plucked it into my mouth.  I swallowed it down with a gulp from my Riesling.

"Annie, you're not going to be alone forever.  People as wonderful as you always find love.  You're going to have," Harriett paused, searching her drunken brain for the right word. "Dumpsters!" she'd yelled finally.  "You deserve to have dumpsters full of love, Annie! I know you will!" 

Somehow in my inebriated state her choice of words struck me as hysterical and I laughed in spite of my dashed spirits.  "I deserve dumpsters of love?  That's about right.  I wish I could put love in the dumpster."  I laugh harder still and Harriett and Lulu joined in my fit of giggles.

"Yeah," Lulu agreed, "Let's put men in the dumpster!"

"And wrinkles in the dumpster," I added. 

"Oh and Dr. Troll, he is totally in the dumpster," Harriett said, proud that her dumpster notion was such a hit.

"The Little Bo Pussy costume...it's in the dumpster!"

Lulu cheered.

Shortly thereafter I found myself soothed by my friend's assurances and prescription aids. I fell into a blissfully sound sleep.  Fortunately for me, the night did not end there.

Lulu and Harriet had just gotten started.  Two bottles of wine later they huddled together on my couch, engrossed in reading.  They read with rapt interest, dissecting each and every entry of my diaries they discovered while searching drunkenly for hidden snacks. 

"Oh, wow, read this one," Lulu squealed with delight, thrusting one of the many journals strewn around my floor at Harriett and clapping her hands, "It's great!"

Harriett read aloud, assuming her best impression of fourteen-year-old Annie. 

"Dear Diary," she'd read,
"Today was the worst day of my life.  I don't even know where to start.  Okay, so here's what happened.  Before lunch, I got my bloody period.   Luckily I figured it out before I stained my new pink Gerbeau jeans (so cute!)  But the thing is I didn't have a pad...so I used my sock.  Then for some deranged reason I told Terri and Terri told Monica and Monica told everyone.  My new nickname is bloody socks. Oh God, Help Diary!  Love, Annie (aka bloody socks) 

Harriett looked up from my journal, circa 2001 and wiped the tears of laughter from her face.  "Oh wow, bloody socks.  I remember that.  Annie was mortified.  People called her that through high school."

"These are awesome," Lulu agreed.  "You know, Annie's a good writer.  Even in her private journals, she is good at telling a story. My diary's filled with doodles, boys initials, and rambling unorganized sentences failing to express my teenage angst.  These are different, like a book.   These could actually sell." 

Lulu and Harriett stayed up until the wee hours of the morning pouring over my old diaries, laughing at the documented trials and tribulations of my youth, and discussing the possibility of my future as an author. The more they read, the more convinced they became that I was the next big thing to hit the literary world.  They formed a plan to set their idea into motion. 

"I'm showing these to daddy or Jack Swanson," Lulu said, finally yawning and placing the last of my journals aside. 

Harriet agreed, and with that my fate was sealed.   Although of course, I knew none of this as I dreamt my way through it all. 

There's nothing so dismal as waking without hope, but that's how my days began.  Wrist-slitting depression smacked me in the face before I managed to open my eyes.   I felt weak and incapacitated, incapable of doing anything other than lie in bed. 
"I give up," was my new mantra and it applied to every aspect of my life.  I no longer believed in love or the idea of ever finding a man to measure up to my memories of Jaime Knox, or in taking showers for that matter.  Feeling certain I was doomed to die alone, most mornings, I simply cried myself back to sleep. 

On the rare occasions I mustered the will to leave my bed it was only to relocate to my couch, where I consumed copious amounts of gummy bears and reality television. 

I became deeply involved in the lives of the characters on my various shows.  I wept when Kim Kardashian's marriage crumbled.  I cheered hysterically, pumping my fists in the air, when Tabitha ripped into a particularly hapless colorist on Tabitha's Saloon.  I rolled my eyes and sighed when Gretchen and Lynne argued without expression on the Real Housewives of Orange County. 

Eventually, I decided that while living life proved far too much of an emotional burden, watching others live theirs truly helped to numb the pain.  I smoked constantly.   I smelled like death.  And as far as I was concerned my new way of life yawned eternal. 

Eight long days into the depressive spell my friends brought in the cavalry, which included Lulu, Harriett, and Julian.  They'd debated whether or not he would be helpful and decided that, while risky, there is power in numbers; so Julian came along.

Lulu yelled through my locked apartment door. "C'mon Annie, open this door!  Let us in."

I remained glued to my perma-spot on the couch, eyes fixed to a re-run of Millionaire Matchmaker. 

"Annie, please!  We want to make sure you're okay.  You haven't answered any of our phone calls." Harriet opted for the guilt trip.

Not a chance suckers.  I dug in my heels at the idea of social interaction with real live humans. 

"Annie," Julian whined loudly. "It's me, Julian.  Let me in."  I heard him attempt a whisper to Lulu and Harriett. "She'll let me in.  I'm her favorite."

"Go away," I screamed.

Realizing their fortitude for face-to-face contact, I half-heartedly hide the empty cartons of cigarettes and boxes of ice cream scattered about my living room.  Slowly, I made my way to the door. 

In they came, bringing with them a pungent scent of alcohol and an unmistakable air of steely determination.  My friends had on their game faces and they came to play. 

"Get dressed," Lulu bossed, not wasting any time. 

I stared at her with my best, don't mess with me look, not about to allow myself to be taken alive from the safe confines of my apartment.  Eyes trained on Lulu, I skulked back to my familiar, warm-spot on the couch and plopped down with the weight of someone intent on staying put.

"Get dressed," she repeated, adding a pointing finger for effect. 

I responded by reaching for the remote control and loudly turning up the reality TV. 

"Get dressed!" she bellowed, apparently serious this time.  Pouncing on top of me, she pinned my arms above my head while gagging at my stench.  "Oh God, Annie, you smell so bad! Shower, now!"  She yanked me up from the couch and dragged me toward my bathroom with the strength of a woman three times her size. 

Still not giving up hope, I struggled to break free.  I kicked and howled, and when I thought Lulu might succumb to my assaults, Harriet and Julian came charging into the battle. 

The four of us wobbled recklessly around my tiny living room, knocking into tables and sliding on the trash haphazardly covering my floors. We were all yelling. Julian made gagging sounds, threatening to vomit in response to my deadly underarm odor. The fight ended with a crash when we all realized simultaneously that a bottle of vodka was wounded. 

"Man down," Julian screamed, racing to the bottle's side and uselessly attempting to siphon the clear liquid pouring from its cracks into an old ice cream carton.  He held the injured bottle above his head and opened his mouth.  Enthusiastically he thrust his tongue, allowing the spilling alcohol to splash onto his waiting face. Once the last drop escaped the bottle and the reality of his loss settled over him, Julian shook himself dry and fixed angry-red eyes upon me with wild, irrational fury. I felt my last remaining shreds of control slip away.

One hour later, I found myself freshly showered and situated at NAAN, an uptown sushi restaurant. The patio was crowded with its usual array of trust-fund hipsters, fresh couples, and groups of well-heeled business types. Steaming, hot sake was placed before me and green piles of edamame dotted our table. My friends recanted the details of our fight, high-fiving one another in a grand show of victory. 

I was being punished. 

Julian was in prime form, feeling justified in his in-your-face feistiness by the fact that, according to him, "I murdered his dearest friend." 

I listened mutely as he droned on, darkly sipping my sake while he danced from touchy subject to sensitive area with delight. "You know what y'all are doing wrong, right?" He asked, referring to our dating lives and posing the question to Lulu, Harriet, and me, as a collective group. 

Not one of us was stupid enough to play into his loaded question, but it hung in the air above us raining down insecurity and fear.  Julian continued, absolutely undeterred by our silence.

"Harriet," he said, causing poor Harriett to jump in her seat and fidget nervously, avoiding meeting his stealthy gaze.  "Harriet is like Miranda.  Like Miranda on Sex in the City." He finished evilly, smiling and leaning back in his chair with wicked satisfaction.  "And Lulu, you're Charlotte," he continued branding her with cruel intentions, fully knowing, that to Lulu, this insult was heinously below the belt.  "And Annie, you're Samantha."

Whack, he delivered his final blow. 

A deafening silence throbbed in my ears, enveloped our table and time slowed down.  Our table erupted in waves of violent emotion.

"How am I Miranda?!" 

"Fuck Charlotte and fuck you, Julian!"

"Samantha! Oh God! Samantha!"

We screamed in chorus, our words blending together in a chaotic force that drew attention from nearby patrons. 

Julian sipped his sake with an all-knowing calmness, relishing the mounting pandemonium. 

And then, for reasons I truly cannot access, cannot fathom looking back, I asked him a question.

"Julian, do you think I will ever get married?" 

My voice echoed in my ears, sounding far away and faded.  Vulnerable beyond understanding, I felt weak with want as I waited for his response. 

"Nope," he chirped. "Never getting married."   

That was the last thing I accurately remember, as I, Annie Gertrude Paige, lost it. Darkness coursed through my body so ferocious it filled me with terror.  My anger bubbled and spit, forming energy beyond my control.  I screamed primally, "I will have a fucking husband!"  It felt better to scream than to sit with the gaping, lonely, horrifying quiet.  I wailed again, "I will find the man of my dreams! I will get my damn husband." I slammed my fist on our table in rage, and hollered with all of my might, "I will get my Goddamned husband!" My sake glass shattered from the sheer force of my table pounding furor and blood dripped scarlet stains upon our table.     

I looked around at my stunned friends.  Harriett was softly crying, holding her napkin to mask her tears.  Lulu sat stark still, frozen, not moving a muscle.  Julian appeared the most shaken, visibly disoriented, with his hands up as if shielding himself from oncoming blows.  They all shared the same wide eyes, filled with unabashed looks of bewilderment. 

Embarrassment flushed my cheeks a hot-pink hue of shame as I took in the onslaught of pitying stares and hushed whispers cast in my direction.  I felt Harriett wrap my hand in an ice-drenched cloth napkin and for the first time recognized it was me who was bleeding.  The blood was the only thing that made sense to my aching, tattered heart.  I stared emptily down at the bright splatter.  

Somehow I, along with my shamed and haggard group, made it out of the restaurant and into Lulu's convertible. No one knew what to say.   Words seemed an inadequate response to raw feeling.   We rode in unbroken silence. 

Pulling up to my apartment Lulu hugged me a long goodbye. "Don't worry Annie, people will forget. I mean it wasn't that big of a scene." 

Harriett joined in with encouragement. "Seriously, Annie. Who cares what other people think.  We love you.  You're amazing.  Are you going to be okay?"

"I'll be okay," I reassured her, shutting the door behind me.  As I shuffled my way toward my apartment, head hung low, I heard Julian exclaim as they drove away.  His first words uttered since my meltdown. He leaned his body halfway out of Lulu's car yelling, "Annie, Annie, I might have been wrong.  I have a feeling things are about to start going your way, Annie. I feel it! I've got a faggy feeling about it, Annieeeeeee!" With that his bald head disappeared back into the car and they were gone.

Feeling sorry for Annie? Cheer her up by pushing my star :)

Also, I am taking part in the Brigade Watty Awards, and I'll be in love with you forever for voting for Fag Hag in the contest. It is chapter 83 and here is the link:

http://my.w.tt/UiNb/io0KGX0lkv

Thank you so very much!!