she'll be fine on her own, she'll be fine on her own

— "Buttercup," Hippo Campus

---

I think, of all the jokes my mother could have made, there are three standouts for 'real winners,' them being as follows:

     1) Putting frosting on a cardboard box for my eighth birthday.

     2) Running over the neighbor's chihuahua that one time.

     3) Leaving us for a traveling salesman.

Because, yes. That's a thing she did.

It feels like something you could play Two Truths And A Lie with—which one of these three things did my mom not do? One, went to Yellowstone National Park. Two, left us for a traveling salesman. Three, help deliver a baby in Dubai. Because, my mother, being the kind of person to have delivered a baby in Dubai and never saying more than "yes I did that one time," would leave us for a traveling salesman. Of course.

I have incredibly mixed feelings about the move. My dad has become some sort of social pariah, because everyone figures no respectable man's wife would leave him for a traveling salesman. A traveling vacuum salesman, no less. Either that, or they just ... they're just weird. It being a small town, either are very likely, to the point of potential synchronicity.

Dad dislikes driving on the interstate, but he prefers it to the highway. Whether we're going sixty or eighty miles an hour, though, he hates one thing more than everything else: S curves. Right now, we're on the second section of a particularly tight S curve, and his knuckles have gone bright white on the steering wheel. Steely Dan plays too loudly, because I guess we'd rather destroy our eardrums than talk to each other right now, and Dad's jaw is set tight, an actual vein bulging in his neck.

I know why. Of course I do. And to an extent, I understand it, but I guess I don't see the point in pretending nothing happened while never moving on. What happened, happened. I'm not afraid to say it. And maybe that is precisely the reason why I've never been afraid to drive on an S curve, yet always aware enough to never drive on one when a tornado watch is in effect.

We leave the S curve—surprise—without so much as a scratch—yet another surprise. A couple feet after we're on a straight stretch of road, there's a green sign that reads "Potasaukton." I tried to Google what the hell the town name means. Nothing came up. It's like someone asked themselves, "I have to name a small town in Wisconsin. What should I name it?" and the perfect bullshit name popped in their head: POTASAUKTON, big and bold and smelling of the color beige.

Dad turns down the radio, then reaches into the bag of Veggie Straws between us, rustling around the dry, starchy tubes and pulling out a handful. They stick out between his fingers, like Wolverine, and he crunches one down before saying, "We're almost there, Hadley."

"Yep," I tell him, playing MineCraft on my phone. I always get bored in Survival Mode, so I usually end up wandering around and building little cottages everywhere. It's a nice time-suck.

"Are you excited?" he tries again.

"I mean, sure."

"You'll have to hang out with your cousin," he says for the millionth time. "She was always fun. And she's just graduated too."

"Right."

"And now that you're eighteen, you'll have a lot more freedom. Looser curfew. Stuff like that."

"Yeah," I say, and then I feel bad. He's trying hard—I mean, he turned down Steely Dan and everything. And it's not his fault that Mom left. It's Jules's. It's the traveling vacuum salesman's. And maybe, maybe, it's mine. And maybe, maybe, I should feel bad about that; if anything, I feel bad about not feeling bad. It's the only remorseful-ish feeling of mine that doesn't seem to border on complete apathy—this guilt that comes with not feeling guilty.

I do feel guilty about giving him a hard time right now though. "That'll be nice," I add.

Dad's smile is worn and accompanied by aged lines, wrinkles that are the product of years of smiling. They're so deep that I'm sure he must have smiled more when he was younger. Either that, or he's just that easily stressed. Both seem equally as likely.

"It'll be fun," he promises.

"Yeah," I say, harvesting wheat from my Minecraft garden while Dad pulls off onto the exit ramp and in the direction of Podunkaskatchawan, Wisconsin.

---

Despite the idea of "fun," I hated the idea of having to share a room with my cousin from the get-go. If I had known that I'd have to listen to Ginger's heavy snoring every night, I might have found someone else to stay with.

Ginger's mom, my aunt Cassie, apologized to me for only having one guest room. She told me she can fix up the basement as a makeshift option, but it might take a few days. I told her there was no rush, but with the new development that is Ginger's deep, rattling snores reverberating throughout the pitch black bedroom, I might offer to do it myself.

It's even worse that we're bunkmates. Like, if we had different beds, it would be one thing. But no. I'm on the top bunk. Of bunkbeds. What kind of self-respecting eighteen-year-old has bunk beds? Can you imagine inviting someone over for bunk bed sex? 'When the bunk bed's a-rockin', don't come a-knockin'?' I would just use the guest room instead.

I then realize that it is three in the morning and I'm too busy thinking about how embarrassed my snore-heavy cousin must feel embarrassed to have sex in her twin-sized bunk bed to sleep.

This is so not the vibes.

I check my phone to see if anyone's up. A few guys I sext with when I'm bored have sent me Reels on Instagram; I don't open them. There's been some activity in my friend group's group chat, but nothing that didn't end hours ago. It was them making plans to go bowling. Without me, of course. I'm seven hours away now. You don't drive seven hours to go bowling. (Unless, I guess, you're, like, the Jesus of bowling. But I'm not even a disciple. So.)

I don't have any Snap friends in this area. Usually, if we see Aunt Cass, Uncle Fred, and Ginger, they visit us. Our house, cozy with two extra bedrooms, was plenty comfortable enough for all of us. That house is now on the market, trying to go for over seven-hundred grand. My childhood home, gone, just like that. Over a fucking traveling vacuum salesman.

I hate it here. I feel bad, but not that bad. Which just makes me feel any worse.

This is all temporary, I tell myself. It still doesn't feel entirely real, not with Ginger's rattling sleep apnea and juvenile choice in furniture, but at least it's only temporary. Everything is, after all. I roll onto my other side and cover my ear with the palm of my hand. Ginger's snores permeate the flesh barrier.

A fucking traveling vacuum salesman. Jesus fucking Christ.

A/N - HI HI HI HI HI!

Welcome to SIMPLE SEASON, based on the Landmark album by Hippo Campus! They're probably my favourite band (not that my lock screen on my phone is a picture of Jake Luppen from when I was taking photos for my radio station blog and he was less than a foot away from me, looking right into the camera), and there's a lot to read into with this album, and I'm also feeling a lil' gay, soooo here we go!

Anyways, I'm revamping a few things in here, so expect some changes---AND regular updates!!!!!

See you next Saturday!

yaaaassssss *sparkle sparkle sparkle fade away away awayyyyyy*

yaaaaaaaaaaaaasssssss

*sparkle sparkle sparkle*

*sparkle*