Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
CAL
Excerpt from Androphobes Anonymous forum:
oBITCHuary: Legit gonna hurl myself off a cliff.
McMonster: This better be a figure of speech because I’m about to find your address and have someone bust your door down. My conscience can barely fucking cope as it is.
oBITCHuary: Aww. Who did you kill?
McMonster: Don’t change the subject. Are you okay?
oBITCHuary: If you are asking whether I’m suicidal, the answer is no. I just need to vent.
McMonster: Vent away.
oBITCHuary: Do you want the long version or short one?
McMonster: Short.
oBITCHuary: Returned to the small town I grew up in for a personal matter and everything is…off.
McMonster: That’s small towns for you.
oBITCHuary: How would you know? You grew up in Philly.
McMonster: Educated guess. How can I make you feel better?
oBITCHuary: Tell me it’s okay to take back my promise to my mom and go back to NYC instead of staying here for eight weeks?
McMonster: You know the answer to that question, kiddo.
oBITCHuary: Boo.
oBITCHuary: Well, give me an incentive.
McMonster: Do the right thing so Karma doesn’t get your ass?
oBITCHuary: Karma is literally still stalking me for a chocolate bar I stole from my grandma when I was six. Too late for that.
oBITCHuary: Let’s meet up when I’m back in New York.
McMonster: Aw. Socializing? I thought you were better than that.
oBITCHuary: Come on. We’ve been talking for three years.
oBITCHuary: And before you say anything, no, I don’t care that you work at a fast-food chain and I don’t care if you think you look like an ogre. I LIKE you. And I don’t like men. Hence why we’re here.
McMonster: I’ll think abou tit.
oBITCHuary: Okay. Mine are great, BTW.
McMonster: *IT.
oBITCHuary: Sure, Jan.
McMonster: Shouldn’t you be scared of men?
oBITCHuary: Well, it’s easier to flirt when you have no idea what my real name is or where exactly I live. It’s not like you can come over and take me up on my non-offer.
oBITCHuary: Also, my androphobia is not so bad that I can’t work around men or talk to them in public settings. I just…don’t want to date them. Kiss them. Be in a relationship with them. I’m not asexual. I am EXTREMELY sexual. And THANK YOU Harry Styles for making me discover my sexuality. But I’m scared if I entered a relationship with a man, he’d hurt me. Physically. Mentally. Make sense?
McMonster: Perfect sense. So you’re not gonna hump my leg if we meet?
oBITCHuary: I mean, I’d like to keep my options open.
oBITCHuary: Remind me what YOU are doing in an androphobia forum?
McMonster: Abusive man in my life made me very fucking wary of my kind.
oBITCHuary: Don’t write all men off. They’re not all bad.
McMonster: Yeah?
oBITCHuary: Yeah. There are also people like you.
ROW
“What do you mean they resigned by text?”
I was standing at the heart of Descartes’ dining area, surrounded by rustic décor, stained glass, and useless idiots. I was two idiots short, though. Donny and Heather, my servers, had decided to quit together and hand me a generous twenty minutes notice, along with a figurative middle finger.
“Let me explain again. I’ll refrain from using big, scary words this time.” Rhyland, my restaurant manager, smoothed his crisp dress shirt with his palm, ignoring the staff milling around us to get the place ready for service. “Now, I’m going to talk extra slow, since I know your brain short-circuits once you’re pissed off. So Donny took out his phone, typed out a text saying he and Heather weren’t going to show up for service today, and hit the Send butto—”
“I suggest you get to the point before your balls make it to tonight’s entrée specials,” I said, cutting him off and glancing at my De Bethune watch. “You have five minutes. Use them wisely.”
“First of all? Work on your people skills. You’re about as personable as an STD test.” Rhyland sucked his teeth, shaking his head. He looked like a fucking Hugo Boss model in a suit. At six-foot-four with a blond, Charlie Hunnam man-bun, and a five-workouts-a-week physique, he distracted ninety-nine percent of my employees. “Second, you’re gonna have to tone it down. We live in an era where employees have rights and shit.”
“I can guarantee you their rights don’t include fucking me over with a ten-foot pole and twenty minutes notice.” I turned my thumb ring on my finger, imagining I was wringing someone’s neck.
He scrubbed his face exasperatedly. “See? This kind of language is why three of your ex-staffers filed a complaint against you to OSHA.”
“The R&B singer?” I frowned.
“OSHA, not Usher.” Rhyland pinched the bridge of his nose. “The pro-workers organization?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Why would Donny and Heather quit together, anyway?” I bit out. I was in a particularly dangerous mood today, having spent the last hour arguing, wrestling, and nearly creaming my pants thanks to Calla fucking Litvin, the bane of my miserable existence.
Rhyland stroked his chin leisurely, his douchebag vibes dripping all over my floor. “Hmm. Let me think. Maybe because they’re engaged?”