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Over the next four years, I moved up in the sales lesbians world going from entry-level assistant account lesbians executive to senior vice president in just over seven lesbians quarters. Bri continued to pursue an acting slash modeling slash school teacher slash waitress career while looking for Mr. Right in every single bar, club, and dive in lower Manhattan. And Joshua sat on my couch and slept a lot. We saw Dad once a year on his birthday and Mom as Christmas. Not long after that it, it became every other Christmas. It was in December of ’99 when my mother died of her inevitable, completely predictable, and painstakingly boring drug overdose. She was laid out in a $14,750 coffin she picked out eleven years ago when she saw a movie about some woman that died in a plane crash and her uncaring children decided it would be cheaper to cremate her. All her friends – those of which who actually showed up – kept whispering how she looked less like herself and more like a pitiful drag queen doing a Sarah Jessica Parker impersonation while hopped up on methamphetamines.
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