Jessie's Journal (8/31/26) (Patreon)

Dear Journal:

Michelle’s enthusiasm about her Mel’s Diner job was short-lived.  Last night at dinner, she complained incessantly.

“My feet are killing me,” she said, kicking her shoes off beneath the table.  “And so’s my back.”

Funny, her feet and back never seemed to bother her during soccer practices last year.  I wonder what the difference could be?

And things started so well.  When she got home from her first night, she pulled a banded roll of cash from her apron that looked like a prop from a gangster movie.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked.  Mom and dad had gone to bed, and I was alone in the living room.

“Tips,” she said, holding the wad aloft.  “$150 bucks.”

That was more than a week's worth at Dutch.  Of course, we had to pool our tips, and Mel’s, obviously, had no such policy.  Still, that seemed like an awful lot for someone with such a sour disposition. 

Then I glimpsed the two big reasons spilling out of her uniform.

“Not bad,” I said, returning my attention to the TV.  “If you don’t mind old men staring at your tits.”  I shuddered a little, remembering our father’s behavior at the diner a few years back.

“I don’t care where they look,” sissy said, fanning through the cold hard cash.  “As long as they don’t touch.”

The way sis is trending, I’m not sure which is more likely in her future: morbid obesity or OnlyFans?  Who knows?  Maybe both. 

Still, I’ll admit to a touch of jealousy.  Then the inevitable bitching began.

“Try some Epsom salts,” Mom said as sissy rubbed her puffy feet. 

She was the only one to offer any sympathy or advice.  Dad and I were too busy trying to keep our meals down.  Dad’s look was borderline contemptuous.  Had Mom not been there, he might’ve said something like “Suck it up, buttercup!” 

It’s official. After eighteen years, the spell Michelle had cast over him has finally been broken—the illusion of his beautiful soccer-playing princess shattered by a chubby hash slinger with swollen feet.

--Jessie