My name is Blanca. Max promise me he will not change what I write. This is my column, goddamit, and I don't need no witty remarks. He can correct my spelling and punctuate my sentences and that's it. He may not say mean things to me like "Blanca, read a phone book" or
"Get a brain cell, Blanca" cause I hear shit like that from him all the time. See, we have an agreement. You are witness. If Max break this agreement, then he must deal with God or whatever
conscience he got left. My hands is clean. |
Six months ago, when I start working here, I admit I am
engaging Max in some mild flirtation.
If loading the dishwasher
in her panties can be considered 'mild.' At first I think
he already has a girlfriend. But this
proves to be false, as false as
his friends. Don't get me started on his friends. They come here on weekends and they sit on the deck and listen to his music and drink his liquor. Or they
lay on the beach like whales and get a tanline. And
whenever Max ain't around, they say terrible things behind his back.
Blanca marks her territory like a feral cat.
But he don't listen to me when I warn him of their
two-facedness.
Come to think of it, he don't listen to me much, period.
Oh shit. Guess who just got back from jogging that damn dog. And I 'spect they will be dragging sand all over my clean floors. Like I don't have enough to do. Sorry but I must go now and put a fast roast in the oven. Please visit my webpage again and
I will reveal many intimate secrets about Max and his evil friends. Love, Blanca.
This might not be as much fun as I
thought.