Article about Eminem’s ex-wife Kim Scott Mathers sometime in the 2000’s
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Article about Eminem’s ex-wife Kim Scott Mathers sometime in the 2000’s
Based on me harassing @/fishyfishfih through their strawpage with a drawing eariler.
I know the artwork is quite blurry, but quite frankly i don't give a fuck. And yes, I can draw shit (to some extent). Will I post my artwork in the future? Uh...uhm...uh...
Timelapse under cut (flash tw):
From the Purseforum.com about Eminem and his sobriety how he would do Shaun T’s insanity workout and P90x workout program, and Body Beast workout. Eminem says he loved doing Shaun T’s insanity workout that he stopped running. Eminem said he then started doing the Body Beast workout every morning.
Post about Eminem taking his daughter Hailie to test out driving cars, in 2011.
Eminem and Dawn about Dawn who is Kim’s twin sister
The Detroit Diaries 🖤📖
Before I Knew — Part Three
Two Pink Lines
The longest fucking twenty minutes of my life started when my coworker walked back through the tanning salon door carrying a drugstore bag.
I saw the bag.
Then I saw her face.
Then I looked back at the bag.
“No.”
She walked toward the counter.
“Yes.”
“Nope.”
“Jessica.”
“I changed my mind.”
She put the bag down.
“You can’t change your mind.”
“Watch me.”
I grabbed my Dr Pepper.
“I’ve decided I’m not pregnant.”
She stared at me.
“That’s not how pregnancy works.”
“Well, that’s how mine works.”
“Take the test.”
“No.”
“Jessica.”
“No!”
She pulled the box out.
I immediately backed away like she’d pulled a fucking grenade from the bag.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
She started laughing.
“This isn’t funny!”
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“You’re literally laughing!”
“Because you’re backing away from a pregnancy test.”
“Because I don’t want to know!”
That shut both of us up.
Because there it was.
The truth.
I didn’t want to know.
Not because I didn’t want a baby.
That was the fucking problem.
I did.
More than she knew.
More than anybody knew.
I’d wanted one six times before.
And six times I’d had to figure out how to keep living after losing it.
Nobody knew that.
Nobody except my ex.
Not my parents.
Not my siblings.
Not my friends.
Definitely not Marshall.
And standing there staring at that little box, every single one of those memories came rushing back.
Positive tests.
Hope.
Fear.
Then blood.
Pain.
Crying.
Starting over.
My coworker’s expression softened.
“Hey.”
I looked away.
“I’ll take the fucking test.”
⸻
The Bathroom
I carried the box into the employee bathroom like it had personally offended me.
My coworker stayed outside.
I shut the door.
Locked it.
Then stared at myself in the mirror.
Same Jessica from an hour ago.
Black-and-platinum curls.
Smoky silver-and-pink makeup.
Huge lashes.
Glossy pink lips.
Diamond butterfly necklace.
Black lace camisole.
Hot-pink shorts.
Silver belt.
Zebra platform heels.
Nothing had changed.
Except possibly fucking everything.
I opened the box.
Read the instructions.
Then read them again.
“Okay.”
I took the first test.
Put it on the counter.
And immediately turned it facedown.
Nope.
Couldn’t look.
I washed my hands.
Fixed my hair.
Checked my lipstick.
Rearranged approximately three completely unnecessary things in my purse.
Then somebody knocked.
“You alive?”
“Yes!”
“How long?”
“I don’t fucking know!”
“Look at it!”
“No!”
“JESSICA.”
“I’M WORKING UP TO IT.”
I stared at the test.
My heart was beating so hard I could practically hear it.
Finally—
I flipped it over.
And stopped breathing.
Two pink lines.
I stared.
“No.”
I picked it up.
Turned it toward the light.
Maybe I was seeing shit.
Maybe there was supposed to be another line.
Maybe I had read the instructions wrong.
I grabbed the box.
One line.
Not pregnant.
Two lines.
Pregnant.
I looked at the test.
Two.
Definitely fucking two.
“Oh my God.”
There was another knock.
“Jess?”
I couldn’t answer.
“Jessica?”
I unlocked the door.
My coworker looked at my face.
Then the test.
Her mouth dropped open.
“Oh my God.”
I immediately pointed at her.
“NO.”
“What?”
“Don’t say it.”
“Jessica—”
“Nope.”
“You’re—”
“DON’T.”
She covered her mouth.
I stared at the test again.
“I need another one.”
“What?”
“This one’s broken.”
She blinked.
“Broken?”
“Yes.”
“Because you don’t like the answer?”
“Exactly.”
⸻
Test Number Two
Five minutes later, I was back in the bathroom.
Second test.
Same routine.
Except this time I couldn’t turn it over.
I watched.
One line appeared.
My heart jumped.
Then—
Another.
Faint at first.
Then clearer.
Two pink lines.
Again.
I sat down on the closed toilet.
“Oh…”
Fuck.
My hand went over my mouth.
Then slowly down to my stomach.
Completely flat.
Nothing.
No bump.
No movement.
No visible difference whatsoever.
But suddenly I couldn’t stop touching it.
“Holy shit.”
My eyes filled.
“No, no, no. Don’t fucking cry.”
Immediately started crying.
Perfect.
I laughed once through the tears because apparently my body had decided we were doing every emotion simultaneously.
Scared.
Happy.
Terrified.
Disbelieving.
And underneath all of it—
Please stay.
That was the thought that hurt.
Not What am I going to do?
Not Do I want this?
Just—
Please let this one stay.
⸻
And Then My Phone Rang
I heard it from outside the bathroom.
That distinctive little ring from my hot-pink Nokia.
My coworker looked toward the counter.
Then back toward me.
“It’s him.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who?”
She gave me a look.
Like there were seventeen men currently calling me every five minutes.
“Marshall.”
“Oh, fuck.”
The phone kept ringing.
I walked toward it.
His name was right there.
MARSHALL
My thumb hovered over the button.
How the fuck was I supposed to answer normally?
Five minutes ago, he was my boyfriend.
Now he was—
Jesus Christ.
Possibly the father of my baby.
I answered.
“Hello?”
“Hey.”
I closed my eyes.
“Hey.”
“What’re you doing?”
“Working.”
“You sound weird.”
Of course.
“I don’t sound weird.”
“You do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You definitely do.”
I looked at my coworker.
She mouthed:
Tell him.
My eyes widened.
I violently shook my head.
Absolutely the fuck not.
Not like this.
Not standing behind a tanning-salon counter.
Not through a Nokia.
Marshall was still talking.
“You there?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Jessica.”
“What?”
“You been weird all fucking morning.”
“I don’t feel good.”
“You eat yet?”
“A little.”
“And?”
“And my stomach still feels weird.”
“You need to go home?”
“No.”
I looked at the two tests hidden beside my purse.
“I actually have some errands I need to run.”
“What errands?”
I closed my eyes.
Of course he asked.
“Just errands.”
“What kinda errands?”
“Jesus Christ, Marshall.”
“What?”
“You need an itinerary?”
“Maybe.”
I laughed despite everything.
“No.”
“What you gotta do?”
“Girl stuff.”
That bought me approximately half a second.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means girl stuff!”
“You’re acting suspicious.”
“I am not!”
“You are.”
My coworker was silently dying behind the counter.
I flipped her off.
Marshall immediately said—
“Who you flipping off?”
I froze.
My coworker’s mouth dropped open.
I whispered, “How the fuck do you do that?”
He laughed.
“I know you.”
“You’ve known me for like five minutes!”
“Still know you.”
Goddammit.
I looked down at my stomach.
Then at those tests.
And suddenly I wanted him there.
Not on the phone.
There.
In front of me.
I wanted to put that test in his hand and watch his face change when he realized what it meant.
But I couldn’t.
Not yet.
I didn’t even have a doctor confirming anything.
And after everything that had happened before?
I needed that.
⸻
I Need to Know This Is Real
When we hung up, my coworker immediately came around the counter.
“You didn’t tell him.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because two drugstore tests aren’t enough for me.”
She stopped.
“I need a doctor.”
That came out quieter.
“I need somebody to tell me this is real.”
I swallowed.
“And that everything is where it’s supposed to be.”
She studied my face.
There were things I wasn’t telling her.
A lot of things.
But she didn’t push.
“Okay.”
I picked up the phone book from underneath the counter.
This was 2002.
There was no pulling out an iPhone and Googling OB near me.
We had phone books.
Landlines.
Receptionists.
And approximately nine thousand opportunities for me to chicken out.
I found the number for an OB/GYN practice.
Then stared at it.
“Call.”
I looked at her.
“You call.”
“It’s your vagina.”
My mouth dropped open.
“BITCH.”
She burst out laughing.
Unfortunately, so did I.
“Fine.”
I picked up the salon phone.
Dialed.
And waited.
“Women’s Health Associates, how may I help you?”
Fuck.
“Hi.”
My voice suddenly sounded twelve.
“I, um…”
My coworker nodded encouragingly.
“I took two home pregnancy tests.”
Pause.
“They’re positive.”
Just saying it made my stomach flip.
The receptionist started asking questions.
Name.
Date of birth.
Last menstrual period.
That one was harder because I wasn’t completely certain.
Symptoms.
Whether I was having bleeding.
Severe pain.
No.
Thank God.
Then she asked whether I’d had previous pregnancies.
My entire body stiffened.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
I looked away from my coworker.
“Six.”
“Any living children?”
My throat tightened.
“No.”
There was a pause.
“All six were losses?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
My coworker’s expression completely changed.
Shit.
She hadn’t known.
Nobody fucking knew.
The receptionist’s voice softened, and after putting me on hold, she came back with an appointment they could fit me into.
Not weeks from now.
Soon.
Because of the positive tests, uncertain dates, symptoms and my history, they wanted me evaluated.
I wrote everything down.
Time.
Address.
What to bring.
Identification.
Insurance information.
Medication list.
And I was told that depending on the evaluation and how far along they believed I was, the doctor could decide what testing or imaging was appropriate.
I hung up.
And just stared at the paper.
My coworker was staring at me.
“Six?”
I closed my eyes.
Fuck.
“Please don’t.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Nobody does.”
She didn’t ask anything else.
Instead she touched my arm.
“I’ll go with you.”
I looked at her.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
That almost made me cry again.
“Okay.”
⸻
One More Secret
My phone buzzed.
A text.
Marshall.
YOU GOOD?
I stared at it.
Then typed:
YES. GOT SOME ERRANDS AFTER WORK. I’LL CALL YOU LATER. LOVE YOU. 💋
His answer came almost immediately.
WHAT ERRANDS?
I laughed.
“Nosy motherfucker.”
Another text.
???
I typed:
NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS 😂
Then—
EVERYTHING YOU DO IS MY BUSINESS NOW
My mouth dropped open.
“Oh, really?”
My coworker leaned over.
“What?”
I showed her.
She laughed.
“Good luck hiding this.”
I looked at the pregnancy tests.
Then at his name on my phone.
Then down at my completely flat stomach.
Fuck.
She was right.
I typed one last message.
LOVE YOU. I’LL TALK TO YOU LATER.
Then tucked the phone into my purse beside the tests.
Because I had an appointment to get through first.
I needed to hear a doctor say the word.
I needed to know what was happening inside my body.
And most of all, after six pregnancies that had ended before I ever got the future I’d imagined—
I needed somebody to tell me whether I was allowed to hope this time.
I rested my palm against my stomach.
Still flat.
Still quiet.
Still our secret.
“Okay, little one.”
My voice was barely a whisper.
“Let’s find out if you’re really in there.”
And somewhere far away, Marshall thought his girlfriend was running a few mysterious errands after work.
He had absolutely no fucking idea.
To Be Continued… 🖤📖
Next: Before I Knew — Part Four: The First Appointment 🩷
Someone in ig comments talking about how their brother got to hang out with Eminem in his locker room on SNL.
Article about Rihanna and Cara Delevigne partiying after Rihanna performed with Eminem during The Monster tour.