@quismet ft. amy dunne.
Dear Reader,
It isn’t often that I miscalculate.
I say this, of course, bearing in mind the humbling knowledge that I am currently standing oh - for - two, with thanks being in order first to my sweet husband Nick in all his disappointing predictability, and now, to the beautiful wife of my most recent attempted conquest, Joe. Now, for my more avid readers, that's Creepy Neighbor Joe, as you'll remember from my Diary. For those of you just tuning in, allow me to shed some light! There's been something of a flirtation blossoming between myself and the lesser half of the burgeoning Quinn - Goldberg Dynasty. It hadn't been intentional, at first ... but there are only so many ways to respond when a man takes it upon himself to pocket your panties during his first uninvited foray into your home. ( You should have gotten to know me better first, Joe. I’m alarmingly meticulous. I notice, when my things have been rifled through. Three little hairs, and all of them broken. You’re not nearly as clever as you think. )
Me, I take that sort of behavior personally.
I take that sort of behavior for everything it's worth.
Obsession, I can use.
I don't mind telling you … I thought this part would be easy. As far as I see it, I'd even be doing Love a favor, relieving her of the sad, miserable, peeping - tom bush lurker that she calls a husband - but of course, like any woman petri - grown in Sunny Los Angeles after surviving the toxic and yet surely still quite elastic grip of Dottie Quinn's poisonous, Non - GMO cunt is bound to be ; Love Quinn - Goldberg is ungrateful.
Are we surprised, reader?
No, I would say not. What is surprising though, is how she's taken to me sniffing around her husband. Should I set the scene a little?
After taking a particularly harsh whack to the back of the head with a bestriped rolling pin in the empty lobby of A Fresh Tart, you awake to find yourself in a cage of Hannibal Lecter-esque aesthetic and proportions. Your immaculately maintained cool girl blonde locks are matted in the back with dried blood, and when you sit up abruptly in the center of this monolithic ode to intellectual fetishism, you’re eye to eye with the woman whose husband you’ve been conspiring to sweet talk into killing yours. Do you . . .
( Normally, I’d give us some A B C’s to choose from here, but since Love has gone off script, I’m going to play this one by ear. )
“Love?” Oooh, that doesn’t sound very sweet. My throat is sore from disuse, my head is throbbing. How long have you kept me down here, Love? How long until Joe notices I’m gone. “What’s going on?”
I have to give it to her, reader . . . she’s dedicated. Strong - strong enough to drag me into what looks like the basement under her adorable storefront, strong enough to stop herself from killing me - or maybe too weak to do the job. I think we’re going to find out. And don’t forget, reader.
Obsession, I can use.