Megan Millard

“Hi, I’m sorry to bug you, but I’m looking for Jessica,” 

“Sorry there’s no one here by that name,” she said. 

I had another dream. This one was way more disturbing.

Hey, where you been? Worried about you, text me so I know you’re alive lol

You are simply pandering to the ignorant in an effort to sell your merchandise.

“What’s happening to me?” I asked. “I want to call my mother. Where’s my mother? Where is my phone?”

My husband’s face went from confused to sympathetic, then he responded, “Honey, your mom died. Eight years ago.”

Lonely. Bored. Nerd. Those were the words I wrote down on the little pad of paper Dr. Gordon had given me as I sat in front of him in his office that Tuesday afternoon.

Suddenly, I felt sick to my stomach. That’s when we heard the voice.

This was winter in northern Michigan and this was private property. There was no reason anyone should have been outside in freezing temperatures pounding on my parents’ window.

“Excuse me,” I said to the flight attendant. “The guy next to me, do you know where he went?” I extended my finger towards my seat, the row of which still remained empty. Just then, the plane started to shake, and the “seatbelt sign” illuminated, accompanied with a small yet terror-inducing ding.

“I’m bringing booty back. Go ahead and tell them skinny bitches that.”

Frankly there are things that I, and many other people in relationships, find irritating when it comes to interacting with SOME single people we encounter in the world.