Amy’s brother is in deep shit for shooting a seagull in a McDonald’s parking lot. Sick solace for a failed bird hunting expedition with his buddies. Idiots on drugs with rifles and government granted licenses. They never saw a duck, but managed to shoot off a trunk-load of ammo. The seagull was a conciliatory bonus. It tried Edgar’s patience, got on his nerves swooping around the pan of the truck while he was eating a Big Mac. He and the boys buried it at the beach. Edgar describes the bird’s demise with mob execution gusto. Sand, shovel, shallow grave. Defends his actions admirably. Argues nobody gives a fuck about seagulls cause they’re nasty scavengers. Toxic flying garbage cans. Off on a tangent, he names all the S critters he despises and fears. Snakes, spiders, skunks, sharks…

"Sasquatchs," Amy’s father pipes in from the kitchen where he’s busy divvying up his stash of 2000 native smokes into more manageable plastic baggies of 50.

Amy’s mother is disturbed by the bird’s undignified burial.

"You should have cremated it," she scoffs, "recited a short prayer."

Edgar in a singsong voice, "No fuss, no muss, back to fucking dust."

"Gull with the Wind," her father quips.

Deluded wannabe comedians. "I can’t come out, the wife wants the cock tonight," Amy’s father tells his friends when he has to cancel darts. "I promised Jesus and the Virgin Mother I wouldn’t," her mother taunts doorbell vendors and sidewalk hawkers. Constantly trying to out do each other to be the funniest, Amy’s family consider her to be the weakest link. Lacking a flagrant funny bone, innate sense of comedic timing.

Nearing 30, Amy and Edgar are members of the adult children still living at home statistical grouping. Her younger brother resides happily undisturbed in his old room. No job or prospects at 27, he’s managed to stay in university for eight years without edging any closer to an actual degree. Amy has a bartending job and pays rent. Not a lot of rent, but she’s in the basement for Christ’s sake. A few years back she made the mistake of moving in with a friend for a few months. Her parents were carting her left behind possessions downstairs before her ass even cleared the front door. No pleas to stay or cautionary advice about going out on her own for the first time. ‘See ya later Alligator, give us a call every second Sunday.’ She found herself demoted to the basement after the roommate and budgeting thing didn’t work out so well. Next door to an ancient furnace, chronically exposed to deadly vapours, toxic mold, mice, all kinds of unknown safety hazards. Her father is using her former bedroom has his so-called study. He doesn’t read books or use a computer, so she’s not sure what he actually does in there except nap on a lumpy old futon. Its been at least four or five years now since she came crawling back home, Amy’s been throwing out a lot of hints, whining frequently about the sweatshop like basement conditions, but she’s still waiting for the invite back upstairs.

Getting whored up for her bartending job is hard work. Carefully picking out just the right outfit to guarantee tips good enough to compensate for the shit she’ll have to endure for eight fucking hours. She’s frustrated and hot, underarms dripping after just ten minutes of trying on clothes. Not ready to hobble downtown in her micro mini and knee high vinyl boots until she’s pep talked herself into believing there couldn’t possibly be a hotter chick in the club tonight. Superficial or not, she’s not looking forward to getting old and losing her good looks. It’s what she’s been straggling by on in the limited shelf life hospitality industry. That and big tits.

Working in the club scene has definitely soured her optimism on love and relationships. Men are pigs, but single women are far more nasty. No loyalty or restraint. Males are comrades, united in the hunt, willing to back the boldest of lies, say anything to aid a buddy’s sexual conquest. A horny, desperate woman is an army of one. Ready to fight to the death or ripped out hair extension for a man’s attention. Habitual pick up chicks like to portray themselves as good-time only girls, just out for fun, having way too good a time to need or want anything long term. But the next week or night, they’re back, scanning the crowd, nagging the bartenders and bouncer if so and so has been around. Hanging off the end of the bar depressed over a no-show or having that ‘You never fucking called me asshole’ conversation. It was easy to feel superior about it all until it was Amy’s turn.

She’s obsessed with a co-worker, a twang talkin’ American from the deep south. Her desperate maneuvers are bordering on harassment, possibly stalking and insanity. There’s not much dignity left to lose. When Roadie’s within stroking distance, she’s in a constant state of anxiety, jealousy and lust. And he knows it. Everybody in the fucking bar does. She was a goner long before he rolled a cold Corona bottle up her bare thigh and asked her to come home and fuck. Amy can’t actually remember having sex with him that one time she was so unbelievably plastered, but it must have happened, cause she stepped on a squishy condom stumbling out of bed the next morning. What she does recall clearly is opening her eyes and seeing Roadie with that ‘chew your arm off not to wake her’ look on his face. He’s been sending mixed messages ever since, fucking her around. And she’s painfully aware she’s smothering him with eager devotion. Too much texting, phoning and consistent hopeful availability. The absolute worse strategy to get a man’s attention. Her rational mind sees it all so clearly, but she can’t make herself stop the foolishness.

Getting him fired is not an option cause she’s the one who convinced her boss to hire him. He looked so fucking good in his tight bum jeans when he dropped off his resume last summer. All dark and moody, kinda Billy Bob Thorton bad boy lookin’ with lots of tats and wiry muscles. She’d look like a vindictive bitch if she spoke up against him now. It’d be different if he hadn’t so deftly ingrained himself with the bar regulars. If nobody liked him, they wouldn’t give a fuck. That’s the problem; everybody loves Roadie. He has some sort of strange appeal that makes people want to give him stuff or take care of him. Customers are always bringing him books and magazines cause he reads a lot of self-improvement crap. He can spell a lot of words he can’t pronounce properly. Amy’s been pouring liquor into the regulars for years, the most she gets is free shots and the scattered bottle of booze at Christmas. No one gives a fuck about her long-term prospects.

"Roadie has no heart," she whines to her family.

Her father suggests an artificial organ that excretes love pheromones like an aroma dispenser.

Amy’s mother thinks they should bake one up for him.

Edgar shoves a box of Kleenex across the kitchen table.

"Hard old kick in the cunt, Sis."

"You should know all about marred crotches," Amy sneers.

Edgar passed out on the toilet while he was smoking. Sizzled his pubes and burnt a nasty little hole in his left ball. Amy heard him screaming all the way down in the basement. He was running around the living room in circles howling, minus pants and underwear, wet towel pressed between his legs. Their mother chasing after him trying to inspect the damage. Amy made straight for the video camera, but her dad grabbed it first.

He wasn’t convinced Amy had the courage for the up close and personal ‘money’ shot. And he was disgusted with Edgar.

"You’re a special kind of moron setting your own dick on fire."

Their father loves breaking out the video when his drinking buddies are over. "That’s my one and only son," he keeps saying, "can you fucking believe that?"

Amy uploaded the footage on YouTube as payback for Edgar posting an embarrassing video of her last winter. Lucky fucker just happened to be standing right next to her with a cell phone in his hand when she fell off the front steps and slide the whole length of the icy driveway on her butt. Wedged herself underneath a truck parked at the curb. She threw out her back, missed three days work, shattered her favorite Swatch. Edgar being an asshole was to be expected, but a little sympathy from her parents would have been nice. They’re so used to being glib they’ve forgotten their children have feelings to hurt. Dead-end jobs, broken hearts, damaged backs and dicks – its all fresh material.

Everything’s a big joke, including Edgar snagging three months community service for the murdered seagull. He’s had that gig before. Cleaning up trash with a spiked stick. His buddies will probably drive by all day, honking and ridiculing him, but he claims to be looking forward to the fresh air and exercise. It’ll help de-fog his brain. And he’s excited about the new and interesting people he’ll meet up close and personal on the city streets. He means crazies, hookers and junkies. Says he’s thinking about getting involved in the community more. Maybe mentoring troubled youth. Amy’s parents throw each other a conspiratorial glance.

"Number one," says her father, reaching out to pat Edgar’s hand gently, "you’re a troubled young man yourself."

"And number two," her mother chirps in, "you’re barely even involved in your own life."

Nurturers. "You were such effort," her mother says about Edgar and Amy’s childhood, "I never imagined." Did she think raising children would be as easy as caring for pets? The simple equation of undivided love and attention in return for food and shelter.

Edgar and her parents ignore Amy when she comes upstairs. Nobody notices her top is slit down to her pierced bellybutton. They’re mesmerized by Kink on Showcase. Sadomacism has everyone sitting together contentedly as a family. On the television screen a really fat woman wearing an unbuttoned black leather vest is laying down a plastic sheet to catch her partner’s blood splatter. Slinky breasts that shouldn’t be allowed to see the bright light of day dangling down almost to her waist. S & M seems tedious. A lot of prep and clean up involved in marathon torture dates. Too many confusing props and sharp objects, way to much tacky leather and rubber.

"It’s all about trust," Pontoon-Tits is saying. And pain. Amy’s not good with pain. She doesn’t trust a soul, faints at the sight of blood, doesn’t have much control to give up. Dominating is hard work. Amy’s submissive in bed cause she’s lazy. No deep psychology behind that. She’d probably be getting laid more often if it wasn’t such a chore finding someone fuckable. She rarely sleeps with customers. Not unless it involves sexual chemistry so obvious and inevitable no words are needed. One of those rare instances when the deal is struck through the brevity of a look. When strangers are not really strangers.

There’s an unusually high percentage of hot guys in the bar tonight. A merrily wasted cop introduces himself as ‘Pierre Dubois, Head Amputee.’ Bound for Sierra Leone in the morning to train developing world slackers in the fine art of demolitions. He’s scruffy and sexy. The Marlboro man in Gap boy camouflage.

"Could be dangerous," Amy prods, giving him opportunity to delve into his Rambo resume.

He just laughs, says he’s more worried about bugs crawling up his sweet French-Canadian asshole. He’s cagey enough to charm her into sex, but a softness in his warm brown eyes tips her off her that it would be a mistake. He needs something more from her than a faceless fuck. Catching a plane to Crapville in a few hours, a little bit scared, a tough guy looking for sanctuary and a reassuring touch. He’s shit out of luck tonight with this bitter barmaid. Her heart and box is chained to the player asshole standing four feet away; his nose and lips stuck deep in the earlobe of his flavour of the week. A tall redhead with gigantic fake breasts and perfect clothes and hair bought with her husband’s gold card probably. She drinks chocolate martinis, tips magnificently, been hanging around the bar a lot lately.

Roadie’s drunk by the end of their shift. Luckily, the redhead split around midnight after a short cell phone conversation Amy partially overheard in the can before some asshole in the next stall flushed and ruined it. Sounded like somebody was ordering her home pronto. She was definitely sucking up to some man her financial or physical well-being’s dependent on. Doesn’t really matter why she left, Amy’s just thrilled she’s gone. She rolls a joint while Roadie’s doing a couple off lines of the bartop.

"I love boobies," he says happily, wiping a dot of white powder from the tip of his nose and licking it off his finger. He’s staring sideways at her right tit through the gape in her top. Practically salivating. So wasted and horny he’s finally willing to give her a second chance or forgotten he’s already fucked her. She’s Plan B, the easy convenient lay, but couldn’t care less at the moment.

"Kudos to that shirt," he says, "it did all the work for the tips tonight."

Amy punches his arm, holds up her fist like she’s ready to sock him in his pretty face.

"And your bubbly, warm personality went a long way too of course," he adds quickly, running his hand down her bare arm.

She’s sucking up the praise and attention, happy as a pig in shit, feeling lucky. The anticipation is fucking awesome. Roadie pops their favorite trance cd in and jumps up on the Baby Grand, bends down and lifts her like she weights about the same as a 2-4.

Dancing and drinking at the same time nearly costs her a front tooth. She spills half a friggin Grand Marnier down her front banging the glass off her mouth. Roadie leans forward over her shoulder, licks the sticky liqueur running down between her breasts. He’s holding her hips tight, grinding against her, advertising his massive dick. Amy relaxes back against his rock hard bod, wiggles her own hard ass all over his crotch. Her butt is vibrating. Roadie’s jammed his cell into the front pocket of his jeans. When the song ends he finally clues in that it’s ringing, knocks Amy off balance trying to clumsily dig it out. She grabs both his forearms to keep from toppling over the edge face first.

"Don’t fucking answer that!"

Roadie shakes his head slowly, "I have to darlin’."

The fucking redhead is on the phone. Amy can hear her screaming about standing out in the cold banging on the door for 20 minutes. Roadie rolls his eyes, mouths "sorry," jumps easily to the floor for someone so totally fucking wasted. Holds out his hand to help Amy while he’s placating some other stupid bitch in a whiny baby voice. She’s beyond fucking disgusted, kicks his hand away with her pointy toe and steps carefully down to the piano bench. Her stomach dropped down in her fucking boots. Can’t even look at him while he’s struggling into his coat, cell still plastered to his ear. Afraid if he gives her the wrong look, she’ll bash the side of his head in with a barstool. She whips her head sideways when he tries to kiss her cheek good-bye.

His precious lucky lighter that he never lets anyone borrow or touch is lying forgotten on the bar. A silver embossed Zippo with some unvoiced sentimental value.

"Catch," she calls after him despite herself.

"Nah," he says smiling slow, "hang on to it. I’ll get it back from you later." As the heavy steel door bangs shut,

"I don’t trust ya baby, but I know where you work."

She’s primed and rearing to go, some other chick is getting laid, and all she gets is a fucking lighter.

Snow is falling heavily when she finally staggers out of the bar alone at 6 a.m. The Weather Network’s promising the storm of the decade. Warm southern air racing up to smash into cold arctic air – a big bad Texas Low. Waiting for the bus in a total whiteout, she’s standing to close to the curb, almost gets clipped by a city salt truck taking the corner to fast. The close call leaves her feeling lucky and weak-kneed. She’s always had a phobia about heavy machinery. Of the opinion that overworked pill-propped-up operators of powerful big machines are constantly resisting the urge to crush, smash or just drive right over everything in their path on bad days. Amy hated snowplows when she was a kid. Usually made a run for the nearest house if she heard one coming. Terrified the driver wouldn’t see her and she’d get smothered in a snowbank or chopped in half by the massive blade. Probably cause her mother dressed her in a white snowsuit for three winters straight when she was a small kid. It seems kinda shortsighted to Amy; a mother sending a child outside without supervision in winter wearing all white. Well, unless you want the kid to get lost. Edgar’s suit was bright red.

They learned the lesson the hard way after misplacing their first born a few times in whiteouts. Amy would burrow into snow piled against the side of the house and lie motionless until her mother gave up screaming her name from the front porch and finally ventured outside to look. Forced hide and seek. Fun for only one person.

By Friday afternoon there’s zero visibility, hurricane force winds and the inevitable power failure. Amy’s trapped in a small bungalow with her weirdo family and no television. It’s not so bad for the first few hours. They’re all cozy and content with the fireplace going and the liquor cabinet emptied out. It’s hardly a Rockwell portrait, but drinking can bring a family closer together. Around dinnertime a Hooters bartender Amy knows from Spin class jams her Honda into a snow bank in front of the house. No way Edgar’s missing out on a damsel in distress practically falling out of the sky. "Look how close she already is to my bed," he squeals, nearly denting his forehead with the edge of the front door in his mad rush to be the first one outside to help her. He can’t think beyond when he’s gonna get his dick wet next. The moron is to stupid to realize that even a Hooters chick is way out of his league.

Amy suspects Edgar might already have a crush on some new girl cause he’s been looking cleaner lately. Last time he fell in love was at the neighbourhood rub and tug. A Filipino chick, gorgeous, hard talking, way smarter than him. She caught on quick that Edgar wasn’t going to be a fast ticket to anywhere. Moved on to a married dentist. Took him forever to get over that nasty bitch. She liked porcelain dolls, so he sent her one he’d pilfered from Amy. A ‘Jessica’ limited edition taken from her attic-stored stash of unopened collector’s dolls. Psycho chick sent it back with the eyes gouged out. Amy couldn’t have cared less, but her mother was devastated. She adored those stupid perfect dolls. Amy got one every birthday, Christmas and special occasions for like 10 years. Collectors’ fucking toys. Another brilliant corporate gimmick. Give kids gifts they’re only allowed to look at.

By Saturday afternoon they’re all basket cases. Bored silly, edgy, irritated with one another for various petty reasons. Ganging up on Amy cause she can’t play 120s and they need a fourth. Edgar’s retreated into sulky despair, her mother is busy knitting and unraveling the same sweater sleeve and her father’s off in La La Land, absentmindedly drumming his finger tips on the coffee-table. Keeping perfect beat to ‘Dear Mr. Fantasy’ blasting off his self-powered am/fm radio. He smiles hopefully at Amy, hoping she’ll get up and dance with him. He’s capable of dancing all night without an Ecstasy boost. When he gets tired of cranking the Dynamo, he whines about his blocked up bowels in gory detail. "Tell them about your semi regular impotence problems too," her mother says from the deep recesses of the fluffy comforter she’s engulfed in. All Amy can see is the top of her head and a halo of cigarette smoke. She starts coughing violently before her husband can think of a good come back, choking on her own mucus, but nobody moves a muscle to get her a Kleenex. Her parents and Edgar chain-smoke indoors with no regard for Amy’s semi-clean lungs. They all drag on their cigarettes fast and furious, but her mother holds her extra long menthol like she’s Norma Desmond posing for her final close-up.

"Are ya gonna live my precious wife?" Amy’s father asks casually.

She can’t answer cause she’s to busy gasping for breath.

"Lung cancer," Amy whispers under her breath.

"Better not be terminal fucking illness!" Edgar roars. Says her and Daddy-O will be marched off to a seniors’ home or hospice at the first hint of poor health or infirmity. He’ll be claiming squatter’s rights to the house and turning it into celebration central – tranny hookers and crack parties every night. And they’d better have already paid for their budget burials, he warns.

"Could you please just make away with me now Edgar?" her mother says hoarsely. "Go find a full bottle of something lethal in the medicine cabinet or under the kitchen sink and dump it into a pitcher of sangria."

Her father says hopefully the authorities won’t even suspect the son despite the lengthy petty criminal record he’s so proud of. He voices this with more venom in his tone than the current light atmosphere calls for. There’s a bug up his ass cause Edgar blew off a perfectly good job in a pet store he’d had all set up for him. An exotic fish emporium a neighbour owns. Crappy wages, but nothing strenuous or mentally tasking. Edgar refuses to work there on the grounds of having serious trust issues with people who buy pets with scales instead of fur. Says he doesn’t think its normal to undergo all that expense and aquarium upkeep for something that can’t purr or lick your face.

"A fish is not a pet," he argues, "it’s something you kill and fucking eat." He looks to Amy for backup, "Am I right?"

For once she’s in agreement. Who picks a piranha over a puppy? Cold people who don’t want to cuddle anything. Amy’s family has never had a pet because none of them are selfless and responsible enough to consistently care for it.

She’s not having any luck reaching Roadie on his cell or home phone. Can't stop herself from calling and leaving increasingly more frantic demands that he give her a shout back. "I’m just worrying about you that’s all," she says in her final message. He’s probably snug as a bug, cozied up with with some skank. She imagines the worse case scenarios. Cold, hungry and alone. Warm, well fed and not alone. After Edgar finally wears himself out drinking and mentally shuts down around 4 a.m. Amy hauls on her snow pants and ski boots. Leaves a note saying she’s gone Arctic exploring and trudges the six deserted blocks to Roadie’s apartment. It’s so beautiful outside now in the light snowfall. The wind’s died down, but it’s unbelievably cold, and it feels like it’s taking forever to get there. A sharp gust blows a load of powdery snow into her verging on frostbitten face. She knows better than to be out walking in minus zero conditions when she’s comfortably numbed with alcohol. This is how people get found frozen in snowbanks. Not thinking things through.

Roadie’s one of the lucky bastards living on a street that’s on a power grid with a hospital – his building has the power back already. There’s no response to Amy’s heavy pounding on his door, but there’s a stereo blasting inside. She tries the knob and it’s unlocked. Only hesitates for a second before pushing the door open. He’s passed out, empty 26-ouncer of tequila next to him on the couch. Amy checks to see if he’s choked to death on his own vomit. Puts her palms flat on his chest and shakes him hard. Not even an eyelid flicker. Booze coma. She taps his forehead with her nails, runs her fingers through his silky hair. Leans down to kiss his forehead and sees dandruff flakes she’s never noticed before. But his hair smells fantastic, kinda smoky and fruity at the same time.

She has good snoop around his apartment cause she was to drunk and horny to notice much last time she was here. It’s your typical bachelor dump with the perma-stink of fusty food, booze and swampy B.O. Take-out cartons and dirty dishes littering every surface. She’s to nosey not to peek through his cupboards and closets. Tylenol and condoms in the medicine cabinet. Lots of booze pilfered from work. Tons of girls’ phone numbers scrawled on scraps of paper and bar napkins. Pretty sparse personal environment. He has hardly any possessions except for clothes, shoes, books and cds. She doesn’t come across mail, financial papers or photos. There’s not even a cheque stub left lying around cause the bar owner pays him cash under the table.

His phone keeps ringing every few minutes. Amy checks the display. The area code is not from Canada. A relative of Roadie’s calling from the States, she figures, or maybe an old girlfriend. She can’t resist. Breaks the cardinal rule; answers someone else’s cell phone.

A raspy abrupt female voice with a Texas twang just like Roadie’s wants to know where the fuck he is. Her demanding tone pushes Amy’s bad button.

"Who is this calling? Don’t you know what time it is here? Why are you phoning so late? What the fuck?"

Exerting way more authority over Roadie’s phone and personal life than her co-worker and one-time fuck buddy status entitles her to.

"I’m the abandoned wife. Mother of his children. Who the hell are you?"

Amy doesn’t hesitate. A big lie pops out easily. Somebody’s got to get hurt for this treachery.

"I’m the new woman showing him the time of his life?"

After a pause, "So is his mouth full of your pussy now or can he come to the phone?"

Amy glances over at Roadie snoring away, drool running down the side of his chin. Oblivious to it all. She presses the end button feeling sordid and one-upped. Turns the phone off.

Roadie told her he’d never been married. And she’d heard him tell it to other women a zillion times. "And no kids that I know of," he’d always joke. Oddly enough, she doesn’t doubt anything the woman told her. Sometimes you’re forced to recognize the truth when you hear it. Why would he deny having a family? If he’s estranged from them why lie about it? As much as Amy would like to pretend her family is not hers; she could never forget about them. That’s so not cool. You might taunt, ignore or momentarily hate the ground your family walks on, but you have to be pretty cold to put them completely out of your life. To never speak of them.

Disgusted as she is, part of her still wants to pull off her clothes and lie down next to him. He’s still sexy, beautiful Roadie. So fuck-able. If only she hadn’t answered his damn phone. There’s no going back now. No point in waking him up to tell him off. Good chance he wouldn’t remember it in the morning anyways. And she’d have to explain what she’s doing making herself at home in his apartment in the middle of the night. She resists the urge to do something nasty like pour all his booze down the drain or start a small fire. Best to leave quietly before she humiliates herself any further for one day. The long cold trek home will give her plenty of time to plot out the vicious tongue-lashing she’ll give him the next time she sees him.

It’s all good. Amy’s done beating up on herself for her misguided crush. But she needs something to jolt her out of this blah bored with life fucking rut. Maybe a different occupation. Something easier like tourism. Travel counsellors get lots of discounted or company paid for vacations. Or customer service for a utility company. Excelling at the nasty corporate strategy of putting pissed off customers on hold until they hang up. She announces at the breakfast table she’s thinking about quitting her job and going back to school. No more late nights and losers.

"Excellent," says her father, "now convince your brother to quit school, get a job, stop acting like a loser."

"Good luck with that," Edgar tells Amy sarcastically.

Amy’s boss calls around noon to ask if she can cover Roadie’s happy hour shift. The lying bastard’s skipped town. Fucked off without as much as a good-bye or kiss my ass to Amy. Caught on video stealing money from the safe at work earlier in the morning. Turns out the redhead is the girlfriend of some local mid-level psycho drug dealer who wasn’t to pleased to discover his woman was stepping out of line. Roadie probably needed fast cash to get as far the hell away as possible. The bar regulars are devastated. Never saw it coming. Regretful of the months of generous tips. Feeling stupid cause they were hoodwinked into thinking their favorite bartender was a stand-up guy. Her boss conveniently forgets how recently he was singing Roadie’s praises. Says he thought he was the dodgy sort the first time he met him. Shouldn’t have let Amy talk him into hiring the loser.

"I never really trusted him," he says.

Out of sight, out of mind. Her obsession’s finally gone like a bad body stone that you’ve been kinda enjoying while at the same time wanting it to be over. She’ll have Roadie completely forgotten about soon enough. He’s the kind of guy that once out of hormonal triggering range for a short time, you think to yourself, "what the fuck did I ever see in that guy?" The easy answer is nothing. Just lust, pure and simple. Animal instinct taking over and short-circuiting logical thought process. Probably won’t be long before she’s disappointed by another one just like him. Assholes are her usual type unfortunately. Amy’s mood is already improving. Living in her parents’ house is not so bad. There’s always someone to come home to. Edgar’s fucked in the head, but he’s harmless enough. Her parents are mildly disassociated, not maliciously dysfunctional. They keep telling her not to worry about her slim prospects of finding a man. Remind her that her biggest concern should be how she’ll support herself once her boobs starting sagging.

"You’ll always have a home with us," her father says, rubbing her skull with his bony knuckles, "You’re the good child."

The plan obviously is to keep her downstairs permanently as unpaid home care. A lackey to change their bedpans, bathe, fed and coddle them in old age. They can think again. There’ll be no fucking coddling from Amy.

Those strange two got nothing to complain about. They’re the lucky statistic. Together since they were teenagers, still screwing like bunnies after 34 years of marriage. A bizarre but working example that life long devotion does still exist. There’s nothin’ foolish about wanting to wake up next to the same person every day. And it’s not wrong or weak to need love. As long as Amy doesn’t waste too much time and energy trying to find, force or fix it.

Greedy that Amy’s hogging her parents’ attention for more than a few minutes, Edgar blurts out he’s pondering getting in on the self-help craze. Writing a book about prayer. He’ll call it ‘God’s a Busy Guy: Five Simple Steps to get your Prayers Fast-tracked.’ Amy asks for the inside scoop.

"Don’t get retarded," her brother says.

Offers to enlighten the whole family for fifty bucks a step.