Excerpt: Life, As Told by Laura and Prozac

Just for kicks, I thought I'd throw in a brief excerpt from the story I've been working on lately (aka the reason that I've been slacking on reviews).  I'm working with a sort of strange format, so let me know what you think of it.  Enjoy!

Her wrists were brittle like old rubber bands.  The thin kind, the kind your mother wound around a fistful of pencils twenty years ago.  The translucent and cracking kind.  Creaking as she heaved herself up, down, up, down, her palms carpet-burning on the daisy-shaped Ikea bathmat she’d repurposed as a living room rug.[1]  Ding.  She wiped her sticky forehead with a towel and went to the kitchen where her Kashi heart-healthy oatmeal was waiting for her.  No pesticides, steel-cut, half a teaspoon of Splenda and brown sugar.  She choked it down like vomit, half of it before unplugging her nose, and slopped the rest down the garbage disposal.  Out the window, the sun beat her strip of shared lawn into cracked ceramic islands.  No sprinklers in this heat.  Save water, all the signs said.  She saved water in a five-minute cold deluge under the low-flow showerhead.  Shivering at the slickness of the grease on her cheeks before she scrubbed it away. [2]  Five pieces of clothing lay on her bed, crumpled Banana Republic dress pants and a Forever 21 chiffon shirt and another shirt, Target, pink-striped like a baby candy cane.  Bra and panties.  Push-up bra, Pink by Victoria’s Secret.  Red panties edged in white lace, Target, with a snag where it cut into her left thigh.  Button-down or chiffon.  Chiffon.[3]  Flowy, nothing to pinch or hug.  Only fifteen dollars at T.J. Maxx. 

[1] Fifty-three.  Fifty-four.  Fifty-five.  Dammit this hurts.  Shut up.  You need it.  Look at you, look at your arms.  They could use you for lipstick and save the whales.  Cheaper than liposuction.  Sixty-two.  Sixty-three.  It hurts.  That’s good.  Burn it off.  Slice it off.  Sixty-nine.  Seventy. 
[2] Disgusting.  You need new cover-up.  Maybe that fancy Chanel stuff.  Something so you don’t look like Pizza the Hut.  What a great movie.  Maybe Brandon would watch it with you.  Mark wouldn’t.  Bastard.  Not if you shine like an oil field. 
[3] That needs a vest.  Ew, too many layers.  Like a pig in a wig. 

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