Catastrophe Queen by Emma Hart Read Online (FREE)
Catastrophe Queen by Emma Hart read online for free here.
CHAPTER ONE – MALLORY
There were three things I needed to be written on a t-shirt for every stranger who passed me in the street.
Red was my nail color.
Dry shampoo was the greatest invention since humans evolved.
I was, without a doubt, the biggest walking disaster since… well, humans evolved.
Of course there were a lot of other things I could say to describe myself. I could eat an abnormal number of tacos in one sitting. I had the gravitational center of a bouncy ball. My tolerance for alcohol was world-record worthy, and if I ever wanted to regain any of the dignity I’d lost thanks to a cracked sidewalk right before senior prom, I’d never wear a heel higher than three inches again.
Even three inches was pushing it.
I much preferred zero.
In fact, I preferred not to wear shoes at all. If I was wearing shoes, there was a better-than-average chance I was leaving the house.
If I was leaving the house, I was socializing.
And let me get this straight right now: I was not a socializer.
You could keep your fancy-schmancy parties and your loud-ass bars and clubs.
I wanted my bunny slippers and my pajama shorts with penguins on.
Yes, I was a closet eighty-year-old, and no, I didn’t give a shit what anyone thought about that.
In my not-so-humble and far-too-frequently-expressed opinion, I was a twenty-five-year-old grandma without the burden of grandchildren, and I was totally okay with that.
I mean, I could barely keep myself alive, so there wasn’t a chance in hell I’d be able to keep two generations of my offspring living and breathing without some kind of divine intervention.
Don’t believe me?
I was living with my parents. And we weren’t talking just left college, drowning in student debt, can’t live on my own kind of living with my parents.
No, it was three years post flying the nest, lived on my own like a boss living with my parents.
And why was I back at home?
Well, that was a fun story.
See, my apartment building had a fire. The origin of it was currently unknown, and while I’d swear that I wasn’t responsible, there may or may not have been a chance that I’d forgotten to turn off my flat iron that morning.
Again, I may have turned it off.
Regardless, my first-floor apartment had been so badly burned that I’d had no choice but to move back in with my parents.
It wasn’t so bad. Not really. They charged me minimal rent so I could save as much as possible to get back on my feet because I’d also been let go from my job, and I didn’t have the restrictions teenage-me had.
What did I have?
Well, images of my parents doing things no child should ever witness burned into my retinas.
And we weren’t talking walking around in underwear or anything like that. No, we were talking about sex toys on the coffee table, a suspender belt over the back of a dining chair, and actual sex on the sofa.