Part Two: BOY MEETS BITCH
Tra and la! I’m dead!
Of course technically, I’m only missing. But as far as everyone else is concerned, I’m dead. Hot girls don’t go missing for a few days then turn up without a scratch. Average-looking girls, maybe. Ugly girls, all the time. But if a hot girl goes missing for even like an hour, you might as well start making funeral arrangements.
I’ve taken multiple precautions to make sure no one will find me. Not the least of which is my getaway vehicle: a Segway. They might go looking for a getaway car, but nobody will look for a getaway Segway. That’s because no one’s ever used a getaway Segway before.
It was a bit shady obtaining the Segway without leaving a paper trail. I’d found an ad for one insanely cheap on Craigslist, and I ended up buying it from a guy in a Walmart parking lot late at night who had a truck loaded with Segways. To top it off, he pronounced it “Sej-way.” Hey, I’m not gonna ask, and I don’t wanna know.
I left Carthage before sunrise and have been cruising along for several hours now. At one point I look in the rearview mirror, Carthage 43 miles behind me, my husband facing a lifetime of being raped in prison, and I just marvel at how easy it’s been. But maybe I’m not giving myself enough credit here. The reason it’s been so easy is because I prepared so well. I pull out my giant checklist and look at the unbroken series of black lines crossing off the various items, and I feel an enormous sense of pride.
Item 18: Cut self and put blood on kitchen floor. Check.
Item 26: Order bazooka, and remember to choose Free Super Saver Shipping at checkout. Check.
Item 41: Make suhweeeeeeet mixtape for Segway ride: some Counting Crows, a little Train, can’t forget Mumford & Sons! Check.
There are only a couple of items left, and I’m about to take care of one of them. I pull into a gas station just off the interstate, and head into the bathroom. I make sure it’s locked, pull out my scissors, and take one last look at my usual hairdo. Time for a little trim! I start snipping at the edges but I’m feeling uninspired, so to get into the mood I put on some salon-quality house music. Boom-chick boom-chick boom-chick! Yeah, that’s more like it. I start getting into it. Really really into it. Work those scissors, girl! Snip snip snip! This hairdresser’s on fire! Finally the song ends, and I check out my handiwork in the mirror.
I’m completely bald.
Maybe the people I yell at in Supercuts aren’t so bad at this after all.
