My Cardboard Balcony

Hello, folks! It's the Cardboard Wife here again and boy has it been a few weeks, huh? But enough about that. Right now, Belinda and I are going to enjoy a lovely weekend at my parents' house. Also right now, we are very tired. I'll be honest, Belinda asked me to write a guest introspection because she's too wiped out to do it, but I think I'm a little too wiped as well, so this is gonna be a short one. So uh... Yeah. Friday. Weekend times. Woo. That's all I got, folks. Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.

Prove It by Belinda Roddie I am a good teacher. I am a good person.

Hello, friend. It's been too long. Where would you like to meet? Would a cup of coffee suit you, or would you rather get something to eat? It's a Friday night; the restaurants are packed. Perhaps we'll grab something small. And we'll wine and dine where the moonlight hits the perfect angle of your condo's wall.

His Raspy Voice by Belinda Roddie His raspy voice was due to all the smokes he swallowed down like red hot candy, and his narrow eyes were bright pink. As I choked down fresh air outside, he opted to stand just a foot away, cigarette between his teeth, the ash descending on his shirt. I wanted to pretend he wasn't mean, or dirty, or uncouth. He wouldn't hurt a fly, right? Still, his words did all the work, and when I finally went home, I knew that my soul had been fractured by the jerk, the guy to whom my mom said, "I love you." I called my real father ev'ry night; his voice filled up the space like warm, clean light.

Tim felt like he couldn't leave his job because he didn't want to lose his benefits. But at the same time, his job had impacted him so negatively that he needed to use his health benefits to survive. But if he left his job due to the toxicity of it, he'd lose his health benefits...that he was using because of the toxicity of his job. Thank God he didn't drink to cope anymore. He swallowed a mouthful of ginger beer straight from the bottle and grimaced.

Cookie Wisdom by Belinda Roddie I keep a mason jar of fortunes next to my work station, living with the false assumption that any of the red words on those flimsy fingers of paper actually tell the future. I think I need to regrow a few brain cells and find some better prophets.