667 Ways to F*ck Up My Life

by Lucy Woodhull

  105. Let’s make blue ovaries a thing

  106. People with ovaries get frustrated too

  My food arrived, so I let Yash flail on text and contented my aching body with hummus. The kabob made me think dirty thoughts, so I bit that sucker with relish.

  Far too soon, it was time to go to work, so I put on jeans, a dark tee, and comfy running shoes. I wouldn’t get to bang Hunter, so I swiped on mascara and lip gloss, but nothing more.

  107. Fuck big makeup

  108. Except when I wanted to wear it

  Whoa—I had tons of emails. People commenting on my blog post. Sixty-three comments! Most of them favorable, but enough mean ones that I was being defended by my fans.

  My fans.

  My Tweet had three hundred retweets. Going after hot men was really paying off.

  109. Except for my lady parts

  I told my throngs of hangers-on that I was going to work at the coffee shop, and ten of them begged to know which one.

  Wow. Okay. I definitely needed to not give out too much personal info. After all, a Twitter account about the love of God was threatening to burn me as a whore.

  I texted Yash that I was about to take off for my flight and left for my brand new job.

  A coffee shop. How hard could this be?

  * * * *

  “I said soy! Soy! How stupid are you that you cannot understand sooooyyyyyyy?”

  These words were screeched at me by a woman wearing a pip star T-shirt before she threw hot coffee at my chest. I managed to duck most of it, but boiling non-soy-maybe coffee still splattered across my shoulder and arm, and I yelled as I went down, hard, onto the rubber ground mat. Oh, hell, it burned. Buuuuurned gah it stung. Why why why?

  I hadn’t even made the coffee! I’d just taken the order!

  Not that she should have thrown coffee at anyone, but Lacey, the redhead from the other night, had been frowning at me all day because she thought I’d banged Hunter.

  I crawled away from the horrible soy banshee, her now-empty cup clutched in my hand. I’d only been here three hours. One woman had lectured me about the price of her triple shot caramel mocha dream that was a necessity she couldn’t afford. Another person had thrown his credit card at me—thrown—and when I ducked to not get an Amex in the eye, he called for Hunter because I’d allowed his plastic to hit the ground instead of lodging itself in my retina.

  After this latest assault, I crawled into the back office, the scene of already one failure. I examined the coffee cup. I’d written soy right on it. No doubt it had been made correctly. Pop star-lady just needed someone to vent her day on probably because her life was so terrible that she enjoyed pop stars.

  Hunter hurried into the room. “Oh, no,” he said. He passed me a plastic bag full of ice for my shoulder.

  Aaaaaah. The cool felt marginally better, but a gentle peeling back of my sodden tee revealed a giant bubble of second-degree burn.

  “You’re a real barista now,” Hunter said while sinking to sit on the floor beside me.

  “No, I’m not. I’m a passable order taker at best.” We laughed, and I added, “Can you please tell Lacey I didn’t sleep with you? You can omit the fact that I tried.”

  He smiled. “Sure, no problem. FYI”—he looked through the open door before whispering—“she tried and failed too.”

  “Yes!” I fist-pumped.

  110. Penis-less misery loves company

  Heh. Twitter would love that one.

  111. That was the most vapid thing I’d ever thought

  112. I’m winning!

  113. Winning what, though?

  Hunter passed me the burn cream from the first aid kit, and I aaaaahhhh-ed when I slathered it on. It would hurt for days, but I said, “I’m ready to go again.” I let Hunter help me up and he followed me out to behind the counter.

  I held up the empty coffee cup and made sure Lacey could hear. “Hunter, Lacey would never have messed up the drink. It was clearly marked soy, and she’s the best barista you have.” Lacey’s red head turned, and a half-smile emerged. Yay! I wanted work friends—I missed the camaraderie of other women. Publishing was lousy with chicks, and that made it awesome.

  Back at the register, I jumped into the fray again. Most customers were nice, even when I was a little slow because they threw an unusual process or ingredient at me. Maintaining speed, accuracy, and the register while smiling no matter what was damn hard. I’d forgotten how hard.

  And I kept saying silent prayers for forgiveness for any time I’d ever been short with a retail employee. I’d never made a habit of it, but surely it had happened.

  The demand for coffee cannot be slaked, so my fingers flew across the register as fast as I could make them for the next hour. I was getting the hang of this! Truth be told, a feeling of accomplishment sang through me, even as my shoulder throbbed. Sing, throb, sing, throb.

  But then I wondered if excelling at taking coffee orders was a betrayal of my pledge to fuck up. Yes, I was caring too much.

  114. Slack off

  115. Be slower

  116. Stop smiling

  117. The coffee is honor enough

  ‘Twas a fine line—performing well enough to keep the job, but also not caring if I got fired on the spot.

  I took a deep breath, blew it out slowly, then greeted the next man in line without a smile. I’d use the same attitude I’d had at the club—I’m too good for you. “What can I get you?”

  The tall, thin white guy leaned down to this kid, a ten-ish year old boy. “What do you want?” he asked the boy.

  “Hot chocolate!”

  I nodded. “What size?”

  The dad rolled his eyes. “He’s a kid, what do you think? Jesus. Small.” He then shook his head at me.

  Blink blink blink. I froze and just stared at him, the knot of overachievement in my belly twisting itself into a rage spiral. I’d had fifteen kids in this line today drinking coffees large enough to choke a giraffe. “So…a small then?” I asked the little boy directly.

  “Medium!” he replied with a gap-toothed grin.

  The dad huffed and rolled his eyes—again—and I entered the medium hot chocolate into the computer. One. Button. At. A. Pause. Time. I sniffed. I peered at the screen. The man’s huffs became gale-force winds.

  118. They don’t tell you how much fun it is being an asshole

  119. Society is afraid of the truth!

  I asked the father, “And what would y—?”

  “Triple latte, medium, coconut milk.”

  He rattled it off so freaking fast. I kept looking for how to put triple shots into a medium, but I really couldn’t find it. The dad started slamming his hands on the counter. My pulse shot into overdrive and I had to keep reminding myself through deep breaths that it didn’t matter. Let him rage because I wasn’t a mind reader or very fast yet. His first stroke at forty-five would give the city a holiday.

  “Is this beyond you?” he asked so snidely I thought his last name must be Whiplash.

  I grinned at him for the first time. “Obviously. Hold please.” My grin still plastered on, I waved to attract Hunter’s attention. He hurried over. “Hunter, how do I ring up three shots in a—”

  The father spit (literally, he showered the counter with his nastiness), “Triple latte, medium, coconut milk! This woman is too stupid to use a computer, apparently.” I grinned, thinking that if he didn’t throw boiling coffee on me, he’d lose the race for ‘worst dick munch of the day.’

  Hunter took over punching up the order and I watched how he did it so I’d know next time. The father turned to his son and said, “Noah, this is what will happen if you don’t go to college. You’ll end up a dumb bitch in a coffee shop.”

  He said it loudly enough that every single worker in the place stopped and gawked, as did half the line.

  I tilted my head, bared my teeth (in a smile, duh), and scooted the tip jar toward him while staring him straight in the eye. I never blinked, and, after a moment or
two, he caved and backed away from the counter, his change clutched in his fist.

  A quiet oath next to me sounded, and I met Lacey’s gaze. “Here’s his coffee cup,” I said, passing it along.

  She smiled and licked her lips. “Duhhhh…I hope I can manage to make it.”

  I put on my most sarcastic face. “Do you mean because you’re just a dumb bitch who works in a coffee shop?”

  “It took me fifteen minutes to figure out how to put on my underpants this morning!”

  “You managed underpants? Are you a wizard?”

  And just like that—boom!—friends. The asshole we’d bonded over was straining to see his cup over the counter. He’d figured out that maybe you shouldn’t insult absolutely everyone who is making your food product. Lacey saw his regard and quickly shoved the cup out of his sight.

  I went to make Noah’s hot chocolate—the only thing I actually knew how to put together so far. I gave him a huge dollop of whipped cream and called his name.

  He trotted up to the counter to take it. “Thanks!” he said. He leaned forward, and I nearly lay across the counter to get as close as possible. “Sorry my dad’s a tool,” he whispered. “Don’t worry about it. He says the same thing to me about college basically everywhere we go. We’re not allowed in Tasti-D-Lite anymore.”

  120. I replied, “Just remember his behavior when it comes time to put him in the home.”

  Noah nodded very solemnly and rejoined a still-glaring father.

  121. Corrupt them early

  I meandered my way back toward Hunter to take over the register again when I passed Lacey. I whispered, “We don’t spit in those people’s coffees, right? That would be bad?”

  “Of course not! We’re professionals.” She poured two shots into the coffee in front of her. “But we do make them decaf.”

  122. Decaf

  “Whoa there, Satan,” I replied, and I got a smile from her.

  The rest of the evening went pretty smoothly. By the time ten p.m. rolled around, my dogs weren’t barking so much as howling, and I wanted to collapse all over the filthy standing mat. “Time to clean up,” Hunter declared.

  I nodded and hopped to it. No sense in being lackadaisical now—the sooner we closed, the sooner I’d be joined with my darling, my love—my bathtub. No Yash tonight, as I was ‘lounging on the beach in Maui.’ Or still flying? Either way, I hadn’t answered a text all shift.

  When the counters had been scrubbed, the floor mopped and the chairs set upside down on the tables, I’d officially finished my first shift of a brand new job. It had been far more physically laborious than I’d dreamed—perhaps stupidly. My every muscle’s weariness felt…good, somehow. I’d taken out my frustrations on the wet floor, in hauling garbage. And, once I learned the computer, even the taking of orders became mechanical in a lovely, brain-fuzzy way.

  I’d discovered pretty quickly that I worked fast and smiley for the nice folks, and—

  123. Slow and smiley for the rude ones

  124. A smile can mean ‘fuck you’

  125. Perhaps even more than a frown

  I took the train home and, at eleven p.m., had just crawled into the bath when my phone dinged.

  Mel: Gaaaaaah! Are you up? Can I come over?

  Me: Yes and yes! What’s wrong?

  Mel: I’ll tell you when I get there.

  Me: I’m in the bath, let yourself in. No matter what’s wrong, my boobs will help. I’ve discovered that they’re great.

  Mel: I have always loved you, yet I love you more now that you’re semi-evil.

  Mel: But you can keep your great tits to yourself.

  Now I worried about Mel. I sank into the water and argh! shot right back up again because it hurts when you submerge a horrid burn in hot water!

  I ran out of the bath, splashing water all over my floors, and fetched an ice pack. Back into the bath I went, hot on the bottom half of me, cold on the top. Aaaaagggghhhh. My feet felt as if they were melting into the water, the pins and needles on my soles already beginning to ease.

  Grrrrrr—I wished I could charge that horrible coffee thrower with assault, but at least Hunter had said they were banned. They take Polaroids of all Official Assholes and post them behind the counter. Obviously, I would work to memorize these people’s faces immediately.

  I closed my eyes for a little while until the ice pack and the bath had become roughly the same temperature. Through the open bathroom, I heard Mel at the front door. Followed by steps, indignant by the sound of them.

  Mel burst into the bathroom and blurted, “I will kill the horrid man!”

  I sat up, tits be damned. “I’ll help! Also, which one?”

  She handed me a towel and I slid my ice pack off to stand.

  “Holy crap, Dag! Are you okay?”

  I groaned. “Yes. I need to put burn jelly on it.” I’d managed to stop for some on the way to the train. But first—

  “Cover up your ass,” my BFF bade me.

  Swish swish I swiped the towel all over me while Mel left…to root around in the kitchen by the clanking of it. I threw on a tank that avoided my horrifying, one-and-a-half-inch blister, sweatpants, and slippers. Once in the kitchen, I sat to apply my cooling cream and perked my ears for her. “Shoot,” I said.

  Mel poured the most dramatic glass of vodka I’d ever seen. She tipped the glass, downed half, wiped her mouth, then began to speak. “You remember Taylor?”

  My stomach began to knot with hatred. Taylor Choate was a fellow assistant editor in Mel’s group—science fiction and fantasy. “Yeeeeeeees?”

  Swish. The other half of the vodka disappeared. Oh, wow. She really was pissed. She hadn’t swigged vodka this fast since her stepmother had thrown out her framed university diploma to clear space in her scrapbooking room. “Taylor has just signed a second author out from under me.”

  “What?”

  Mel slopped more vodka into her glass, set it on the counter, and brought the bottle to the table. “I thought the first one was a fluke. But the second was a lady I’d scouted from her self-published book I’d enjoyed. Without telling anyone, I emailed her to ask if she had any other work. She did, and she sent me a manuscript. I hadn’t even brought her up in an editorial meeting yet! But today, Taylor brings her to our boss as his discovery…with the exact same book she’d sent me!” She took a pull straight from the bottle.

  “That bastard!”

  “So I email the lady, very politely asking what had happened. She said he’d called her saying how much he loved the book, and that he was taking over for me.”

  I reached for the vodka. “He had to know you’d find out.”

  “He doesn’t care. Anything I say now sounds like sour grapes to Charlie.” Ugh, that was tough—Charlie, their boss, was Taylor’s uncle.

  Mel flopped into a chair. “How? How did he know? Did I mention it to someone?”

  “Did you?”

  She shook her head so hard her hair frizzed. “No. I knew this time.”

  I gave her back the booze, as was only right. “Is he reading your emails?”

  “I thought of that—I changed my work email password and messaged her from my personal email.”

  “But did you write the emails to her on your work computer?”

  Her mouth fell into an O. “Yes.”

  I nodded. “He might have a keystroke logger sending him everything you do. Or have hacked the whole machine in some way, not just the company email system.”

  She breathed a screech of such frustration it nearly came out on fire. “That piece of shit!”

  While she pounded my table and drank, my vision turned red and hazy. No. No! Why should the Carmichaels and the Taylors of this world always win? Mel was honest, hard-working, clever. She did the work, and that rank piece of hair gel would reap the rewards!

  Not on my fucking-up watch.

  Through gritted teeth, I said, “I’m going to get him for you, Mel.”

  “How do I prove it?”

&
nbsp; I shook my head. “No, no. Don’t prove it. Trap him with it, or with some other scheme of his.” I met her eyes. “And I mean it… I’m going to get him.” I said the italics out loud, with a growl.

  126. I would get him

  127. Get him so good

  128. Make him weep for his momma

  129. Make his momma weep for having birthed him

  130. Make the hospital he was born in spontaneously combust!

  With wet eyelashes, my best friend blinked at me. I took her hand. “Yes, Mel. I’m going to avenge you.”

  She sniffed with happiness.

  I leaned back. “Tell me everything about this asshole. I’m going to ruin his life, and he will leave you alone.”

  “Really?”

  My eyes wide, I put on my most innocent voice. “What, am I gonna get fired from publishing?”

  We both cackled the cackle of true witches, the kind they burned in the olden days.

  Today, the witches would burn them.

  Mel swiped her lips free of vodka. “Taylor comes from money—Charlie, too. Old New York real estate money. He drives a Pagani Zonda that he loves more than life itself. He only lives ten blocks from work in Manhattan, but drives every day just because.”

  I sat up straighter. “Really?” Oh, I had an idea for that… “What the hell is a Pagani Zorpa?”

  “Zonda. I have no idea, but it looks like a spaceship you could buy an apartment with.”

  “Okay, what else?”

  Her face hardened into self-determination. “He loves negging women into sleeping with him. Usually really young, not enough self-esteem to say no to his tiny-ass dick.”

  “Ha! Have I ever met him?”

  She grinned. “I don’t think so.”

  “Good. Try to find out where he’ll be on a given night or two, and I’ll make sure I’m not working.”

  She clapped in the chair with pure glee. “Fuck you, Taylor! Fuck your author-stealing bullshit!”

  “Don’t scout anybody else with your work computer. Don’t type anything on there you wouldn’t want him to read.”

  “Will do. Or won’t do, as may be the case.” She pointed to my wound and sucked on her teeth sympathetically. “What happened there?”