She had decided. She’d hitch hike to New Orleans and buy an old house, the kind that they were always featuring on haunted history shows, one surrounded by a swamp and ancient willows (how she’d afford this house never seemed to occur to her.) She’d become a voodoo priestess and lure men home to use as sacrifices, the kind of men that had been grinding her face into the dirt her whole life .She‘d dismember them and make them into raw pies for the gators. Alright, so she’d be less of a voodoo priestess and more of a serial killer, she still liked the plan, too bad she’d never do it. She’d been fired from the diner because she refused to mold the hamburger patties, just because she thought cows more worthwhile than men didn’t change the fact that she’d never be able to take a blade to someone who hadn’t taken one to her first. She raised her head off the bar and took a shot of rum. It was sickeningly sweet but she was worn too thin to even think about vomiting, her smoke had burned down to the filter “That‘s okay, that‘s where they hide the heroin“ someone had once told her. She looked at the bar tender blearily and asked “Who the fuck put Tori Amos on the juke box?”

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