Working It Read Online Free

that he loves anal sex, and I wouldn’t have been more creeped out than I am right now. I’ve been there, done that with dates who confess freaky predilections, but never with one who got off on morphing my face.
    I simply reach into my purse, pull out a twenty dollar bill, toss it on the table, and walk out of Snob, leaving Morph2Perfection without even saying, “ Adieu , Freak Show.”
     

Chapter 5
    Drunk Dial
     
    What do you do with the rest of your evening after a crap-crap-crappy day at work, and a crap-crap-crappy date? Drink wine, bien sûr!
    After leaving Snob, I grab some comfort food from Happy Bamboo, my favorite vegetarian restaurant, and two bottles of wine, and head back to my place.
    I am halfway through my Pho Rice Noodle Soup and Seaweed Salad when I remember I promised to text Vivian about my date.
     
    Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:
    Home. Alone. My date morphed our profile photos & brought pictures of what our children would look like.
     
    Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:
    Jesus, Mary, and John Wayne Gacy!
     
    Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:
    Who is John Wayne Gacy?
     
    Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:
    Was. Serial killer. The kind that dressed in clown costumes and chopped up little boys. He probably would have morphed photos—if the technology would have existed. I am totally creeped out.
     
    Vivian sends another text before I have a chance to respond to her first one.
     
    Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:
    Unless you liked getting photos of your future offspring…and then I am not totally creeped out, just a little creeped. (Please tell me you didn’t like it.)
     
    Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:
    Loathed it. Loathed him. Loathe kids. Loathe clowns. It’s early there, what are you doing?
     
    Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:
    Working on my book.
     
    Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:
    Then, stop texting me & write that bestseller!
     
    I mute my ringer and toss my phone on the table. I have a queasy, greasy feeling in my stomach, and it’s not from the Pho Noodles.
    I am jealous of my best friend. It’s the ugly kind of jealousy, too. The kind of jealousy that makes me secretly wish something a little bad would happen to her, something that would tip her scale from über-happy to mildly content.
    C'est tout simplement horrible. Je suis horrible!
    I push the soup bowl away, too sick with shame to eat another noodle. What kind of person wishes ill-luck on her best friend?
    The worst kind.
    I empty the contents of the first bottle of wine into my glass, lift the crystal glass to my lips, and finish it in one gauche gulp. It takes a lot of wine to get me drunk. Fortunately, I have a lot of wine.
    Halfway through the second bottle, I take my Pinot-fueled pity party into my living room, collapse on my expensive but uncomfortable leather couch, and stare out the window at the amber lights of the Golden Gate Bridge reflected in the smooth black waters of the Bay.
    I have a penthouse apartment with a killer view, a heavily padded trust fund, a great job, a couture wardrobe, a loyal best friend, yet…
    Yet I am not happy. I do not feel fulfilled. Something is missing from my life, but I don’t know what.
    I finish the second bottle of wine, and I don’t even care that I will have to pound the treadmill for one hundred and seventy three minutes at six miles per hour to burn off the calories I’ve consumed tonight in wine alone. I am that miserable.
    I came to the United States ten years ago to attend Parsons School of Design, but I hated New York so I transferred to the Art Academy of Fashion in San Francisco. I felt lonely during those first few months at the Academy. My comprehension of American slang was embarrassingly deficient, and my finishing school manners gave me a haughty air—or so I was told. I felt as isolated as an Ebola patient. In a rare moment of vulnerability, I asked a girl in my History of Costume class why the other students didn’t approach me.
    She had this whole rockabilly thing