“Oh, I have more then just letters, girlfriends!” So I screamed while feigning robotic happiness. “I have got so many stories to tell!” Still keeping coy, just need to hold the composure…

“Well, shit, girl. Spit it! You’re teasing too hard!”

“Alright, alright, I spit: I am gonna get married to a handsome shoe salesman! He proposed to me over a royal picnic!” Their gauges burst, the arrow spinning clock-wise absolutely out of control.

“WHAAAAT?!?” The chorused cry of the girls rang out through the ’hood.

“Lemme see your rock, girl?” “You pregnant? You know, I have noticed a bit of pooch down there…” “Shoe salesman you said? Where he work? Payless, Nordstrum, oh no, don’t tell me, he got his own shoe store?!?” “Yep, I think it’s decided: you’re definitely pregnant.”

My head spun with the cacophony of their voices. Without hesitation, feeling possessed, I lifted my hand to show my rock, turned my head to say, “No, I’m not pregnant,” and again with, “Yes, he owns a store.” The day was just beginning.