The Dead Queens Club

Except I can’t tell if it’s real or not.

If we mean anything, or if he’s just manipulating me.

But I do the classic fake-left-go-right, so he lands on the side of my face. Honestly, I’m in the mood to slap him at this point, because he’s definitely, without-a-doubt hitting on me to get me to do what he wants.

And because this definitely, without-a-doubt is making me have some very unpleasant second thoughts about that night at Lake Marxism when he pulled the exact same move right after he told me Parker was a big bad liar.

“You know if I cheated it wouldn’t be with Erin.”

“Yeah, and the one you’ve never hated is the one four out of five dentists agree is totally bound to—you know, obey and serve and sit around being agreeable.”

And you also don’t do shit like that if you care about somebody the way I thought he cared about me.

“Oh my God. When are you going to wake up and realize he’s lying to you?”

She’s not just the editor-in-chief. She’s an actual criminal profiler straight off some FBI show.

“You see a drunk girl trying to walk home, you don’t get brownie points for not throwing her in the trunk.”

“I’m saying he’s gross. Nineteen hitting on thirteen isn’t romantic. It’s pervy. And illegal.”

You might’ve had a girl in a cheerleading uniform give you the hand in the face, but a girl in a bespoke homecoming dress? Transcendental.