Jessie's Journal (11/2/26) (Patreon)

Dear Journal:

When I went through my rebellious phase, I sometimes raided my parents’ liquor cabinet.  Dad was a whiskey-and-beer guy, while Mom drank only wine, so the clear stuff—vodka, gin, certain brands of tequila, etc.—was easy to pilfer.  I’d take what I wanted, then replace whatever I took with tap water.  I expect my watered-down substitutions are still in there.  If Dad ever makes a gin and tonic, it'll be weak.

But that was years ago, so the beer at the party hit me pretty hard.  At first, it loosened my tongue, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.  I probably spoke more in my first thirty minutes at the party than I had in my thirty days sitting at the cool kids' lunch table.  I even managed to string a few sentences together with Luke Newman, who was dressed as Dracula.  I swear, if any boy could scare me straight, it would be him. 

Of course, if a little of something is good, more must be better, right?  Wrong.  By the time I reached the bottom of my second Solo, my tongue was so loose it felt like it was coming off.  Sentences became tongue-twisters, and even simple words were getting hard to say.

Mitch Pearson laughed when my tipsy tongue combined probably and possibly into “prosibly.”  “You’re a lightweight,” he said. 

I’m certain that’s the first time anyone has ever used that term to describe me.

At least I realized I was getting drunk.  So, I reverted to wallflower mode, sitting on the sofa and pretending to sip from my empty cup.  Scream was still on the flat screen.  I’d never seen it and, frankly, I don’t remember much, but during its house-party climax, our party started yelling at their party, which was fun in a meta kind of way. 

“She should know better than to try to squeeze through that with tits like those,” Gretchen said when the on-screen actress tried to escape the killer through a doggie-door.

“Someone’s jealous,” a boy responded.  It might have been Mitch.  A few attendees, at least those out of wand’s reach of Gretchen, tittered in response.

Gretchen has nice tits, and they looked pretty perky packed into her Tinker Bell top, but Mitch, or whoever had said it, was right.  They didn’t stack up with the actress’s stack.  The good news is, Gretchen likely would’ve survived.

No, I thought, my bleary eyes assessing the hostess.  Her ass never would’ve made it.  Thankfully, I stopped drinking, or I might have actually said so.  Instead, I just smiled at the mental image of Gretchen wedged in the doggie-door like Tinker Bell stuck in a keyhole.

I continued my quiet contemplation.  Is her ass getting bigger?  No, it’s just the flair of her costume…

Nevertheless, my mind continued wandering.  So did my eyes.  That’s when I noticed the fold of flesh spilling over the waistband of Marjorie Taylor’s “Naughty Nurse” skirt, and the back fat bunched above Stacy Jack’s Poison Ivy bustier.  Was my alcohol-addled mind playing tricks?  Or had the “cool kids” packed on a few?

Maybe those midday meals at Mel’s Diner were catching up with them just like they’d caught up with my sister?

Suddenly, a boy dressed as a pirate plopped down on the sofa.

“Hey,” he said. 

I smiled.  “Ahoy, matey.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” he said.  “Ahoy.”

He was an awful pirate.  The only thing he did remotely piratey was fixate on my chest.

“You’re Michelle’s sister, right?” he said, his non-patched eye struggling to keep contact with mine.

I nodded.  “And you are?”

“Sean,” he said, holding out his hand.  “Nice to meet you.”

That’s when I saw past the patch and the painted-on stubble.  It was Michelle’s ex-boyfriend. 

“We’ve met,” I said, accepting his offered hand. 

That was true, assuming “that’s my piggy little sister” counts as an introduction.  I might’ve been embarrassed had I not been oozing liquid courage.

“I thought you graduated?” I asked.

“I did,” he said, still grasping my hand.  “I’m home from college for the weekend.”

So much for Michelle not being invited because she’d graduated.  This definitely would’ve been awkward for her, though. 

My mind flashed to my first journal entry—when I spied Sean making out with my sister. That's when I first noticed her weight gain.   Back then, the roll around Michelle’s waist was about the same size as Majorie’s.  Isn’t it amazing how small problems can grow like wildfire?  Especially when someone’s there to fan the flames?

“You’ve lost weight,” Sean said, matter-of-factly.  “You look good.”

“Thanks,” I said, struggling to be heard over the on-screen cacophony and the clap-back from partygoers.   “You must have some real pirate in you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You like a large booty.” 

I can’t believe I said that.  I can barely bring myself to write it.  Talk about cringy and awkward. 

But my mind wasn’t working right.  Had it been, I doubt I would’ve let Sean lead me to one of the basement bedrooms.

To be continued…

--Jessie