Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 65192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
I’ve always known that on some level, but after what went down with Cam’s girlfriend and her evil ex last winter, I feel my privilege in a visceral new way. Natalie’s ex tried to kidnap her and her little girl, Crissy, a tiny genius child who has had way too much trauma in her life for a five-year-old.
Yes, Crissy seems to have recovered—she’s back to giggling nonstop when I babysit her for Cam and Natalie—but she’ll always carry that nightmare with her in some way.
And she’s just one of millions of suffering people in the world. Heck, there are probably thousands of traumatized people just in lower Manhattan alone who would kill for my backstory.
I don’t have the right to fall apart over a bump in the road, even if it’s a big one. And deep down, I know everything is going to be all right.
I just need to survive my party without letting Harlow, Cam, or Evie know I quit my job—no sense in ruining the night for my besties after they’ve gone to so much trouble to plan something special—and get through Sunday brunch with my parents without letting them bully me into applying to medical school. Then, I can come home, spend a week binge-watching that reality show where people fight over storage lockers, and allow plan B to take shape.
Maybe I’ll get back on the dating apps while I’m at it. One good thing about being unemployed: I’ll have more time to work on finally having sex before I’m the oldest virgin in New York.
I’m already the oldest—and now only—virgin in my apartment, and I refuse to be the only one who doesn’t make it across the finish line this year. Surely, if I put my mind to it, I can at least solve that issue this summer. Finding a decent penis has to be easier than finding a wonderful new job. And decent would be fine with me. I’m not looking for true love or even oodles of orgasms; I just want to get the damned thing over with before it becomes even more of A Thing.
In the past few years, my virginity has become a Superpowered Boss determined to stomp my self-confidence to smithereens.
Getting laid isn’t supposed to be hard. According to books and movies and every love-themed reality show ever filmed, having sex is something people often do by accident, let alone when they’re actively trying to make it happen. As a reasonably attractive person with no long-term expectations, I should be able to wander into a bar and acquire a serviceable dick as easily as ordering takeout.
But even in my fancy, cleavage-enhancing new clothes that Harlow helped me acquire last year, the only men who seem interested are old enough to be my father—or grandfather, gag—or are one of the chronically wasted skater boys who hang out by the pizza place. And I would really like my first dick to be age appropriate and not to smell like bargain-basement weed and unwashed skater-boy shorts.
I don’t think that’s too much to ask, right?
Ugh. You’re no help. Starting a diary was a dumb idea.
I don’t like seeing my thoughts on paper. It makes my life seem even more pathetic.
So, good night, Diary. I’m probably going to burn you in the morning, but don’t get in your feels about it. It’s not you; it’s me.
It’s always me and…I’m not sure what to do about that.
Unemployed, unpenetrated, and unwanted in the West Village,
Jess
CHAPTER ONE
Jessica Allison Cho
A woman with no idea a blast from the past
is about to blow her mind. (And maybe a few
other parts while he’s at it…)
Some women might be annoyed that their best friend decided to propose to his girlfriend at her birthday party and steal focus, but not me.
I’m…breathlessly grateful.
Seriously, I’m so happy to have the spotlight off me and my freaked-out-about-being-unemployed-but-trying-not-show-it ass, that I’m currently sacked out in a lounge chair at the far side of the roof from the packed dance floor, trying to work up the oxygen to get my twerk on. Evie and Harlow have both requested a repeat performance of my New Year’s Eve twerk-a-palooza, a sight that’s apparently so hilarious to behold that the last time she bore witness to it, Evie peed her pants a little, and had to go take a shower before the clock struck midnight.
Which is fine.
I have no issues with making a fool of myself in the name of spreading joy and mirth. I’m under no delusions that my off-tempo wiggling is anything but laughable and there’s no one here to impress. I’m surrounded by old friends from high school and college who like me just the way I am.
Friends don’t care if friends dance like they’ve been possessed by an awkward demon with a twitching problem. It’s one of the best things about friends.