It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After Read Online Free Page A

of any and all makeup that could salvage this fatal fashion faux pas. Through headphones, business cards, and pens, I managed to find a pink tube of dried-out Maybelline mascara, ChapStick, and a half-empty bottle of embarrassingly old Clinique Happy perfume. I threw off my blazer, removed my strand of pearls, stripped off my panty hose, and reached down my blouse to perk up my boobs. I was as ready as I was going to get. With a deep breath, I opened the door, and took one step toward insanity.
    The line had died down enough by this point that I didn’t wait long before being greeted by one of several peppy girls manning the check-in desk.
    “Name?” one of them asked.
    “Andi Dorfman,” I replied as she began to write it onto a dry-erase board only to stop after AN before looking up confused and asking, “Angie or Annie?”
    “No, it’s Andi, A-N-D-I,” I replied.
    “Oh, got it, and what was that last name, dear?”
    “Dorfman.”
    Seeing the puzzled look on her face, I decided to spare her any extra brainwork. “D-O-R-F-M-A-N.”
    “Age?” as she continued to scribe.
    “Twenty-six.”
    “Hometown?”
    “Here.”
    Again, puzzled look. Maybe I’m the idiot here?
    “Atlanta.”
    “Do you have a job?”
    “Yes, I’m an attorney.” What, did she think I normally dressed in a knee length, all-black ensemble? I guess maybe I had pulled off the impossible feat of “making it work.” Kudos to me!
    “Atny” she abbreviated to complete my nametag.
    Though she’d abbreviated my profession incorrectly, I decided to let it slide, since I was, after all, there to make a good impression.
    “All right, dear, step over here and we are going to take some pictures. Can you hold the sign under your chin?”
    Flash after flash, I stood stoically as I posed for my “mug shot” before finally I was allowed to pass Go, collect $200, and enter the bar. Okay fine, I didn’t get $200, but I did get access to the open bar, which became the setting of the most insane scene I’d ever laid eyes on. Hmmm . . . where do I even start? Close your eyes and imagine an entire store filled with Herve Leger knockoffs, each of them accompanied by a pair of matching glittery platform peep toe pumps. Now, breathe in and get you a good whiff of that Elnett hairspray stench. Do you smell that hint of cucumber? Why, yes you do! That would be the Bath & Body Works Cucumber Melon lotion permeating the air (the kind with a hint of shimmer, of course). Look to your right—those girls slamming shots are the “party” girls and are already sloshed. To your left is the group of “pretty prissy girls” conversing with each other (though I doubt any of them are actually listening to one another). And then there’s me. The girl in work clothes who’s found herself in bandage-dress HELL!
    I made my way to the bar to order a glass of Chardonnay, keeping it classy, of course, but before the bartender even poured the wine, I was whisked away by a brunette woman wearing leather leggings and a black V-neck with the sleeves rolled up far enough to see her tattooed wrists. She introduced herself as a casting producer and asked me to follow her into a back room before directing me to take a seat on a stool, where a bright light blinded me and a camera with a blinking red light stared me down, scaring the living shit out of me.
    She began by asking me various biographical questions like where I grew up and what I did for a living. The more I responded, the more the bright light made the room sweltering hot and me on the verge of sweating like a skank in church. Please don’t sweat, please don’t sweat , I thought to myself. Finally, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Shit, is it hot in here or is it just me?” I said as I wiped the moisture off my forehead. As I said “shit,” I covered my mouth like a five-year-old and stared into the camera and then back into the eyes of a very unfazed producer.
    “Fuck, I just cursed on camera,