Fiction: The La Di Da Lady Part 1

Yes, it’s a new story! And it’s comedy, to boot! I shared this on social media and it occurred to me that I was being unfair to not share it with you lot, so here:

Part 1

I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. No, we’re not royalty. We’re not even crazy rich. But my grandfather was a shrewd business man and he loved his grandchildren to bits and pieces.

I respect him enough to not buy into the idea that he had favourites, whatever the rest might say. I was just the only little snot grandchild who lived close enough for him to lavish attention on constantly.

So, I was (and still am) a spoilt brat. So that should count in my favour somehow, right?

What do you mean, ‘no’?

Ugh, who even cares what you all think anyway?

I’m not that bad, really. Well, I am but I hide it in company. I’m not dumb, just demanding.

You’ll probably call me a liar – and yeah, I guess I am. But I’ll bet every last penny in my grandfather’s sizeable bank account that so are you, at one time or another.

Lies make the world go round. That sucks but until we get to a point where no one’s gonna judge me for my flaws, I’m gonna stick to hiding them away. Life’s easier that way.

Now, I said I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. But it’s not there still. Nope, we’ve (my family) hit Earth pretty hard in the past decade or so. But it’s not so easy to change habits you’ve been developing almost since the first time you drew breath.

I’m still that spoilt little girl at heart and sometimes – okay, a lot of the time – I let her out for a spin. Because life’s hard and you have to get your kicks somewhere.

Anyway, let’s talk about today. The Hurricane came charging in shrieking about my lack of marital prospects. I’m not sure where she expects me to pull a man out of – the closet? My behind? But expect it she does and it’s driving me up the wall.

I have to backtrack and admit something, which is hard so bear with me. Anyway, I have to admit that I’m the one who got her started. Stupid little eighteen year old me wanted to get married, you see. I bought into the happy ending horse dung (I’d been watching rom coms a lot, it’s a problem). I foolishly announced to the whole freaking family that I was ready for Mr. Handsome to sweep me off my feet.

I could not have been more dumb.

 

My lovely family immediately jumped on the bandwagon, half of them by warning me off even daring to dream about having an ounce of free time after I accept a proposal and the other half by freaking out over the abandonment of my studies.

 

Like, seriously?

 

Was the red alert necessary? All I said was that I wanted a guy in my life. They’re all lucky I didn’t just fling myself at the closest guy who looked at my chest.

 

But anyway, two years later, the hurricane still hasn’t let me forget about that ill-advised period in my life. And if I ever dared to let her know again that I don’t want to get hitched any more, she have a freaking aneurysm. God, you’d think she was my mother, the way she behaves.

(Thank God, she’s not).

 

No, the Hurricane is just the bane of my existence.

 

The one time I did get up the stones to admit to her that I don’t want to get married any more, she shrieked like she’d been stabbed and told me to stop saying stupid things.

 

She often says that.

 

The cow.

 

I hate the Hurricane. I probably shouldn’t, she’s my older sister and all that jazz. But seriously, she thinks she’s the head of the household just because she was born earlier. She’s not more mature than I am. Not really.

 

I mean, I can get her shrieking within five minutes. Less, if I’m trying.

 

I don’t really try to get on her nerves any more, not unless it’s a special occasion or I’ve had a truly awful day. But I guess exposure makes it worse? Because these days, all I need to do is shrug or roll my eyes and I have her threatening to kick me out again.

 

Which, just don’t even go there. She can’t do that anyway, even if she wants to pretend she can. My name might not be on the deed of sale, but it’s mine more than it’s anyone else’s anyway. For as long as I want it.

 

Definitely for as long as I need it.

 

And, I might need it for a long, long time. Because me? I’m a hot mess.

 

I didn’t mean to be. But, it turns out that if you praise a barely average child until she thinks she’s the best thing since sliced bread, she’s gonna think she’s invincible until the world kicks her in the teeth and teaches her she’s nothing special.

 

I’m still trying to get back up after that last sucker punch.

 

Now, let me just point something out: If I was truly a raging disaster, I’d let myself get thrown at the closest guy who showed any kind of attention and make myself his mess to sort out. But I haven’t. Because, despite all evidence pointing to the opposite, I do have some shame.

 

And I’m not gonna hand myself over to the nearest poor idiot to handle. I’m not a wild animal.

 

Plus… I’m honest.

 

I guess what I’m trying to say is, don’t judge me too hard for being this messed up human trash can. I’m trying my best. And yeah, it’s true that I’ll never say a word of this out loud. But, baby steps. I’m still a spoilt brat, remember?

 

We’re not the most responsible creatures walking the Earth.

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