Must Love Otters Read Online Free PDF Page A

total loser who is probably super fat and has no boyfriend and will never have sex ever again and I probably collect stuffed animals and watch lame reruns and drive a shitty car and I have no boobs and terrible hair and tons of zits and I smell like fish.
    Oh, yeah. I love this job.
    The worst part? Some of what she said about me is totally true. Wow. That’s super depressing.
    On second coffee break, I check Facebook because I don’t know what else to do. Indeed the memo Les promised showed up while I was in the bathroom. Cowards never wait until I’m at my desk—they leave the mustard-colored warning in plain sight where everyone knows the advisory board is breathing down my neck. I was right. It was Batman Jerry. “Review of procedures and protocol required.” Goddammit.
    Facebook brings more fantastic news from “friends,” i.e., people who don’t call or hang out but who would say, “OMG, Hollie, is that you ? You look exactly the same as you did in eighth grade!” if we were to run into one another at Starbucks, which is totally insulting. Eighth grade was my “transition year,” the one my dad spent telling people I was going through that awkward phase we’re all prone to. Stellar. Being reminded that I look like a pubescent male child when in fact, I am a female, is not complimentary at all.
    The red notification bubble is illuminated with announcements from friends getting married, friends graduating from law/medical/astronaut school, friends having (more) babies, one divorce party, invitations to listening parties for jazz and indie-electro music where vegan Asian fusion and craft beers will be served. I hate that stupid red circle. It is a harbinger of terribleness.
    I break free of my dazed and confused stare at the computer screen, pushing aside the fact that cool people are doing cool things while I sit in a basement that smells like a flower truck full of rotting product has slammed into a nursing home.
    I lick the first tear off my lip and it tastes terrible. New makeup.
    I unhook my headset and move swiftly to the bathroom. The pungent slap of synthetic flowers isn’t enough to sober me, despite the fact that I can taste it and my mascara is now trickling down my face in stinging, rose-scented rivulets. I can practically see the molecules of air freshener. I don’t even care.
    Call it PMS, which it probably is, dammit, but I am feeling very sorry for myself. I will indulge this moment because I’ve learned it’s easier to just get it out than hold back the deluge. And I have much to snivel about: an audit memo. Scorched nipples. Friends getting married. Friends having babies. Friends buying houses. Friends getting lives. Friends with mothers and friends with boyfriends who don’t make nachos on their bellies.
    There is not enough chocolate in the world to make this right.
    Troll Lady slams the bathroom door open and fans her face against the noxious perfumery. “Your break is—” She stops when she sees that my emotions have taken a disconcerting detour. “Hollie, are you okay, dear?”
    “Yeah, yeah … I’m fine.” I suck it in and splash my face. I don’t need Troll Lady to pretend she’s goddamned Dear Abby and try to offer meaningful life insight. A quick check of my phone reveals that I still have two hours in this shift. I have to pull it together.
    “Oh, hey, I’m really sorry about Elvis,” I say. “I swear to you, I didn’t see a thing. I’d tell you if I did.” I squeeze past her squishy self and can’t help but wonder what it would feel like if she gave me a hug. Like a mom. Moms hug, right?
    One hour, fifty-six minutes to go. I can do this.
    “911, what is your emergency?”
    “Yes, hello, my husband, he isn’t feeling so well, and he sort of fell over in his chair.”
    Old ladies. These calls scare me almost as much as when little kids are faced with dying or dead parents. “Ma’am, where is he now?”
    “He’s on the floor. Oh, dear, he might have spit