Page 4 of Red Flags Only

Selfish. Self-righteous. Unkind. Inconsiderate.

The opposite of good soup, me.

I let my phone fall, ignoring the would-infuriate-Chrissythumpit makes as it hits the plastic mat beneath my ergonomic desk chair. Ergonomic because I felt I deserved it. Felt my back and shoulders and neck should have top of what my bank account could afford for me to sit in while I write my silly little letters to Jupiter.

As if I have ever deserved anything good. Selfish people do not deserve good things. I know this. My mother taught me well.

But stupid stupid stupid, I always forget. And what happens when a selfish person forgets to not be selfish?

People notice, and they hate her for it. Hate her so much that she ends up sitting in her perfectly peach ergonomic desk chair hugging herself because her only in-real-life friend has just ended their friendship and now all she has for companionship is a semi-anonymous pen pal who is sure to realize her horribleness any day now. Then she will, truly, be all alone.

My garden is full of thorns and thistles, and no amount of weed killer is cleaning it up.

I sniff, dragging my eyes across my knees to dry my tears on my forest-witch’s-toddler-daughter flowy green skirt. I’m probably getting mascara all over the butterfly pattern, ruining it forever.

Good.

It’s my favorite skirt, and I deserve a consequence right about now. Consequences breed correction. The next time I want to wear this skirt, I’ll see the makeup stains and remember that, actually, it’s no longer available to mebecause I was a horrible friend, and horrible friends don’t deserve to be able to wear their favorite skirt.

I should buy a new chair while I’m at it – something wooden from 1988 with wheels that stick and a serious lack of lumbar support.Maybeit’ll have a divet meant to fit my bottom that will dig into my tailbone and cause irreparable damage to my spine. It’s only exactly what I deserve: chair induced scoliosis.

I groan, tipping sideways to lean over my armrest and wiggle my fingers at my phone. I need to see the time so I know how much longer to allot this pity party.

After a fair bit of stretching, grumbling, and nearly toppling out of my chair, I manage to pinch the corner of the phone and bring it up to my tear-soaked face. 3:43 PM. Excellent. That’s 17 whole minutes of pity party left for me.

17 minutes of sniffling and whimpering and generally feeling sorry for myself.

My mother would be disgusted.

I’mdisgusted.

The worst part is knowing that she’s right. I try my hardest, but I’m still not able to just.Be better.

If I were a good person, it wouldn’t be so… so…

Sohard.

3:48 PM.

Good people do not struggle this much to be good. There’s no way. There has to be something in me that’s so intrinsicallynotgood that makes it impossible for me – that makes it so that people can tell just looking at me that I’mbad. Something that tips them off. Something that, try as Imight, I can’t ever pinpoint to eradicate from my being.

It’s probably the fact that I eat tomatoes like apples. Or the way that I never shampoo twice, even though I know I’m supposed to. Or maybe it’s something more constant – the way I walk or the way I talk or the way I breathe.

3:51 PM.

Less than 10 minutes.

Less than 10 minutes to pull myself together and stop feeling sorry for myself. Crying about it isn’t going to fix anything. Nobody became a better person bycrying.

If you don’t stop cryin’, I’ll give you somethin’ ta cry about, and then we’ll both be bad people. Is that what you want? You want your momma to be a bad person?

I shake my head, probably flinging snot and tears all over my desk. “Stop that,” I whisper. “Momma isn’t here. You’re just making yourself feel worse.”

Yeah, well, acknowledging a truth doesn’t make it go away, does it?

Seriously, Lyra, stop throwin’ a fit or I’ll–

4:00 PM.

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