The day started with the same bullshit I always wake up to; the sun shines right in my eyes, there's a throbbing in my head, a horrible taste on my tongue and the inside of my teeth, and, to top it all off, the construction going on right above me. Floor twelve is already full of the smallest, smelliest, but cheapest apartments in Collingwood Heights.
It makes me sick.
This whole damn place is sickening. I've lived in this wreck of a town since Stanley Collingwood himself moved in, well Stanley Collingwood the fourth, and "re-beautified" the town, as he said. Frankly I knew it was a lost cause since they changed "Collingwood Manor" to "Collingwood Heights" and I was only 12 years old. Heights is a place you don't get out of. You're 46 and smoking too many cigarettes in your crappy apartment and wasting your life away.
Wow, anyway, I get up out of bed and head towards the kitchen. Out of the corner of my eye I spot myself in the mirror and take a moment to notice how much of a mess I am. I quickly apply some dark brown lipstick, and tie my dark gray hair up into a bun, taking a moment to admire the tattoo behind my ear, of a tiny candy heart with "me" written in it. Since I was 16 years old, which was only 10 years ago, I had wanted that tattoo. It reminded me that I only needed myself. Which I do. Other people just let you down.
My eggs for breakfast turn out fantastic and make my nausea go away. Feeling better, I sit down on the couch and turn on my small, brown tv. Apparently a girl's body was found by the lake, which doesn't surprise me in this gross place. That story was the only vaguely interesting, so I lay down for a nap before work. So, maybe I nap from 1-5 but I have a reason. I work at the bar next door to the heights. Yes, the gay bar. Lesbar. I'm covered in tattoos and openly gay, my family doesn't talk to me.
But, working at Hot Legs is nice, I guess. the few woman that come in there are older couples usually just drinking on a Friday night. Sometimes though, young men come in there for some unknown reason and order a drink. I look them dead in the eyes as I spill drinks all over their laps. They deserve it. Only creepy straight dudes show up at gay bars.
I wake up from my nice nap feeling refreshed as a hungover person can. I do it every day, you'd think I could handle it by now. I roll out of bed for the second time that day, and slip into my work clothes. Lazily, I re-apply my lipstick as I walk out the door before dropping the tube in my huge purse, even though it'll get lost in that black hole. Down the elevator I go, and then out the front doors and towards Hot Legs. I sit down after clocking in at 6 and get ready to work a boring shift.