Read Online Here I Go Again: A Novel by Jen Lancaster - Free Book Online
Authors: Jen Lancaster
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seventeen are decidedly less so at thirty-seven. I’m not sure I even meant to be so cutting half the time; doling out well-timed retorts was the easiest way to hold on to my power. As my mom told me on more than one occasion, “Fear’s more powerful than love.” She may have been even more concerned about my social status than I was.
I lean back against the headboard and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, all hollow-eyed and middle-aged beneath a poster of a greased David Coverdale.
Pathetic.
I’m about to call to Mamma and invite her to my pity party, but then I remember what Deva gave me. Bad as I feel both mentally and physically, I’m willing to try anything right now.
I dig around in my purse until I find the vial. I take a tentative whiff and I smell . . . root beer schnapps? I carefully unscrew the lid and tip it back. The rubber stopper permits only one tiny bead of fluid to struggle free and land on my tongue.
Whoa!
The drop travels through my system with the intensity of a rifle blast and the fire of nine thousand tequila shooters.
Definitely not root beer schnapps.
I wait a few minutes for my clarity, purpose, and inner peace, or at the very least, to stop wanting to pray to a porcelain god. Yet there’s something strangely appealing about the fluid, so I take another wee swig. My mouth feels oddly alive and my shoulders less tense as I swallow the second drop.
I repeatedly ingest minute amounts of the potion, and each time I do, I feel less queasy and my thoughts are quieted.
Maybe I’m being hypersensitive about the night, and maybe what’s in my diary isn’t so bad after all. Kid stuff. No big deal.
Each time I look in the mirror, the image is somehow softened and my edges seem smoothed. This shit’s got to be a hallucinogen, because I swear I look younger. Too bad Dr. Amy Childs is a jerk who doesn’t want to grow her business. The three of us could sell the bejesus out of this stuff to cosmetic manufacturers. The notion of Incan Pepto-Bismol/Xanax is genius.
Deva, I say to my reflection, you’ve completely redeemed yourself for the wheatgrass.
Over the course of the next hour, I end up chugging about half of the bottle. I’d have finished the whole thing, but I’m so, so sleepy. I’m not sure I’ve attained inner peace, but I’m borderline euphoric. Plus, the bed has stopped spinning enough for me to take a nap.
So there’s that.
CHAPTER FIVE
Time May Change Me
I wake up to the sun illuminating a swath of David Coverdale’s bare chest, just like God intended. I feel a million times better than I did yesterday. I’ve noticed that as I get older, my hangovers tend to last more than a day, which is completely unfair. You’d think with age and experience one’s liver would function more efficiently, but, sadly, that’s not the case.
I sit up and try to work the kinks out. Surprisingly, there are no kinks. None. I’m not even bothered by my high-maintenance elbow, which I screwed up from so many years on the tennis court. I practice a couple of backhands and I have total freedom of movement. This is great! Maybe I’ll lob a couple of balls against a backboard today at the park. Or, more likely, play Wii Tennis. Either way, it’s nice for my joint not to be sore for once.
I immediately begin looking for the Incan tonic I placed by the bed last night, but as I search, I realize I’m not actually nauseous and I don’t need it. I’m not spinny, I’m not achy, and my head’s no longer hosting a ten-piece brass band composed entirely of fourth graders. My hangover is officially Audi 5000! Yay!
When I hop out of bed, my pants fall down. Oh, nice job, Lululemon. You shell out ninety-eight bucks for a pair of bottoms and they don’t even last a year? Granted, I may have been taxing the elastic lately, but still. Double-plus uncool. I end up rolling the top and having the waistband rest on my hips.
While I poke around for my iPhone—where is that damn
I lean back against the headboard and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, all hollow-eyed and middle-aged beneath a poster of a greased David Coverdale.
Pathetic.
I’m about to call to Mamma and invite her to my pity party, but then I remember what Deva gave me. Bad as I feel both mentally and physically, I’m willing to try anything right now.
I dig around in my purse until I find the vial. I take a tentative whiff and I smell . . . root beer schnapps? I carefully unscrew the lid and tip it back. The rubber stopper permits only one tiny bead of fluid to struggle free and land on my tongue.
Whoa!
The drop travels through my system with the intensity of a rifle blast and the fire of nine thousand tequila shooters.
Definitely not root beer schnapps.
I wait a few minutes for my clarity, purpose, and inner peace, or at the very least, to stop wanting to pray to a porcelain god. Yet there’s something strangely appealing about the fluid, so I take another wee swig. My mouth feels oddly alive and my shoulders less tense as I swallow the second drop.
I repeatedly ingest minute amounts of the potion, and each time I do, I feel less queasy and my thoughts are quieted.
Maybe I’m being hypersensitive about the night, and maybe what’s in my diary isn’t so bad after all. Kid stuff. No big deal.
Each time I look in the mirror, the image is somehow softened and my edges seem smoothed. This shit’s got to be a hallucinogen, because I swear I look younger. Too bad Dr. Amy Childs is a jerk who doesn’t want to grow her business. The three of us could sell the bejesus out of this stuff to cosmetic manufacturers. The notion of Incan Pepto-Bismol/Xanax is genius.
Deva, I say to my reflection, you’ve completely redeemed yourself for the wheatgrass.
Over the course of the next hour, I end up chugging about half of the bottle. I’d have finished the whole thing, but I’m so, so sleepy. I’m not sure I’ve attained inner peace, but I’m borderline euphoric. Plus, the bed has stopped spinning enough for me to take a nap.
So there’s that.
CHAPTER FIVE
Time May Change Me
I wake up to the sun illuminating a swath of David Coverdale’s bare chest, just like God intended. I feel a million times better than I did yesterday. I’ve noticed that as I get older, my hangovers tend to last more than a day, which is completely unfair. You’d think with age and experience one’s liver would function more efficiently, but, sadly, that’s not the case.
I sit up and try to work the kinks out. Surprisingly, there are no kinks. None. I’m not even bothered by my high-maintenance elbow, which I screwed up from so many years on the tennis court. I practice a couple of backhands and I have total freedom of movement. This is great! Maybe I’ll lob a couple of balls against a backboard today at the park. Or, more likely, play Wii Tennis. Either way, it’s nice for my joint not to be sore for once.
I immediately begin looking for the Incan tonic I placed by the bed last night, but as I search, I realize I’m not actually nauseous and I don’t need it. I’m not spinny, I’m not achy, and my head’s no longer hosting a ten-piece brass band composed entirely of fourth graders. My hangover is officially Audi 5000! Yay!
When I hop out of bed, my pants fall down. Oh, nice job, Lululemon. You shell out ninety-eight bucks for a pair of bottoms and they don’t even last a year? Granted, I may have been taxing the elastic lately, but still. Double-plus uncool. I end up rolling the top and having the waistband rest on my hips.
While I poke around for my iPhone—where is that damn
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