Sad Desk Salad Read Online Free PDF Page A

her,” Tina says.
    “Why?”
    “I don’t want her getting involved with whatever we decide to do, and there’s no need to freak her out yet,” Rel explains. “I didn’t invite Molly, either. I don’t trust that kiss-ass.”
    Before either Rel or Tina says anything else, an extremely thin and familiar-looking blond waitress wearing a lei and an orchid-print romper approaches our table. “Can I get you anything?” she asks, smiling.
    “Yeah, we’re going to have a flaming scorpion bowl. Three straws,” Rel says, smirking.
    “No problem,” she says, and as she walks away Tina whispers, “Holy shit, was that Amber from cycle three of America’s Next Top Model  ?”
    “Oh my god. Yes! That’s why I recognized her,” I say.
    “We’re getting distracted,” Rel says impatiently. “We’re here to talk about that fucking hate blog.”
    I snap to attention. “How did you even find that thing?” I ask.
    “I have a Google alert on my name,” Rel replies.
    Tina doesn’t say anything, so after a little pause I ask, “Well, did you guys read it?”
    “Hell fucking yes I read it,” Rel says. “And that’s why we’re sitting here right now. Whoever started that site needs to be destroyed.”
    “I didn’t read it,” I admit. “What do they say about you all?”
    Rel makes a face. “Mostly they talk about what a smack whore I used to be, and how I used to go home with guys and pass out in their bathrooms. It actually doesn’t bother me that much because it’s true, and I’m totally honest about that on Chick Habit. What does bother me is when they say that my writing is really shitty and that I hate black people because of something that I wrote about Flavor Flav. Which is total bullshit.”
    “I don’t think you hate black people. You just hate ugly people,” Tina says, not unkindly.
    We both look at Tina, who doesn’t usually say things that are so snappy. She fidgets with the mini turban she’s wearing and looks down at her shoes, which of course are the fabulous four-inch Cherokee wedges circa 1977 she scored on eBay last week.
    “They say that my style is derivative, and that I only got successful by using some celebrity,” Tina finally says. “Also, they found some photo of me from when I was sixteen. I know my jerky high school boyfriend probably sent it. He’s still unemployed and lives in his parents’ rec room in Dallas. My skin’s terrible and I’m wearing a frumpy Starter jacket.”
    “Hey, I didn’t know you were from Dallas,” I say. This is the most open that I’ve ever heard Tina be. Whenever I try to ask her seemingly benign things about her life, like, “What do your parents do?” she clams right up. I don’t even know how old she is. She’s got really high cheekbones, which make her look more mature, but her skin is baby smooth. She could be anywhere between twenty-five and forty. Hearing about the Starter jacket in the photo makes me think she’s somewhere in her early thirties—that’s what the high school kids wore back when I was in middle school. “And hey, everyone wore Starter jackets back then. That’s not so bad!” I reach out to touch her shoulder.
    “You can only say that because you don’t know what they said about you yet,” Tina replies, shrugging me off.
    I don’t have time to respond because Amber has arrived with our scorpion bowl: about a gallon of viscous orange-pink liquid in a wide-mouthed ceramic jug covered with hula girls whose clay bikinis stick out from the side. With little ceremony Amber places it on the table in front of us and whips out a six-inch-long match. She sets the bowl on fire and looks satisfied as the flame reflects in Tina’s vintage glasses.
    After the flame has died down all three of us stick in our straws and start slurping. After a few huge gulps I take a deep breath and ask, “Okay, so what did they say about me?”
    “They said that you’re more hypocritical than Sarah Palin,” Rel says.
    “They said