On Life as a Sarcastic Fringehead

Both of us should delete the previous post from our memories. Please replace it with this one. Thanks, dude. Your fabulousness continues.

Her first question to me was a legitimate one. If she doesn’t know what she’s missing, how will she know where to look for it? Whatever the fuck it is, Parker added in frustration. Two days she’s known me and already uses fuck 300 times a day. Some people are absorbent that way.

I tell her that she found Ellery’s shop without knowing the shop even existed. So continuing to follow her intuition should work in the beginning. I remind her that if she reveals herself to me honestly, I should be a pretty good help. Sometimes I know right away, sometimes it takes longer.

Why do you even want to help me? was her next question.

Self-pity and insecurity won’t get us anywhere was my answer.

“My father,” says Parker, pretending she hadn’t asked that question so she could ignore me. “This has something to do with him.”

“Are you being cliché? If I had a finger for every time somebody pulled his father out of his fucked up life's butt…”

“Shut up, Stillwater,” she laughed. “Just because your daddy never looked back and you’re now so—unaffected—”

“Oh, now you’re being ironic. And with jokes.”

“I think whatever I need is in his possession. Is that a better way to put it?”

“Well, let’s go get it, then.”

“Let’s do it.” She hops up and runs outside the cool cat place to her behemoth parked on the street. I grab Ferocious B from the fenced-in yard and get him excited about climbing into the back. We’d been packed for several hours while trying to figure out our next step. And now we had it. Maybe. “Just gotta find him first,” admitted Parker as she turns the ignition key.