The Bad Dream Notebook by Linda Dahl

Author:Linda Dahl [Dahl, Linda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781631522949
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2017-06-15T04:00:00+00:00

NANNY IN MIAMI

Asleep. Insanely loud cat meowing jolts me awake. Dim is yowling and running around on the floor. She has no tail, just a bloody stump! I jump out of bed to get her, but she runs away, leaving a trail of blood. Then I realize an insane psychopath has chopped it off, and I’ll be next, and I really wake up, hoarsely yelling as Jack and Topanga are pounding on my door, screeching. “Mona, Mona, what’s wrong?”

JUNE 12TH

I love this diary. I love the title. I love this whacked-out cartoon paradise place today. Jack and Topanga. Ramon the Tat King (and his coke). The Slam bar. South Beach. And I love, love, love, living rent-free with no expenses, except for gas and cigarettes and bar bills. I’m getting paid to pick up Jack from school and Topanga from preschool and take them to the beach, the park, anywhere I want, really. They’re happy as long as they’re with me. Two cute little kids.

I don’t love Warren, of course, though he’s kind of hot in an old-guy way, and, yeah, I think about the father-figure thing and it creeps me out. Warren is barely around, which is why I’m here, but he’s nice enough when he is, and he loves the kids. Warren always gets pizzas with everything on, then Topanga picks off everything but the pineapple. And he gets good wine. Now I drink wine with my pizza! Maybe I should just kiss him, give him the thrill he’s hoping for. He drinks a fair amount of rum and Coke after dinner, too, but who wouldn’t if they were in the middle of a divorce to that wretched Patty with her practically see-through nostrils at this stage of the coke game. I mean, what mother gives up her kids to a nineteen-year-old nanny twenty four–seven? A rich coke fiend, that’s who.

What I hate: Of course, Patty. Ramon, when he tries weird shit on me. Most of my dreams. That I can’t do opioids, cannot, cannot. NA meetings where the dealers wait outside, bidin’ their time. Those stupid slogans they all use, like they’re brain-dead, which they probably are. That addicts are big drama queens, constantly talking about their sordid capers. Dude. Who gives a shit? But here’s the thing: I have a plan and it’s working. Save money from this job and travel. Write the graphic novel of my generation.

Oh, and other things I hate: Thinking about Mom. Especially hate that. She acted so defeated when I left, like I stabbed her in the heart. Everything is not my fault, and I hate that she makes me feel like it is. She should deal with her own shit, which, in fact, I’ve told her. I’m dealing with mine. I have a job, I am responsible, I’m not doing drugs. OK—fuck you! Just pot and wine. A little coke, but I don’t even like coke; I’m a down girl. Well, have to go, Topy’s screaming, I hope Jack didn’t hit her again.

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