Due to a bad case of writer’s block and general apathy, I’m currently managing a retail store in a mall that should have closed its doors 10 years ago. It’s easy work, but the hiring pool is pretty shallow.
My employee Missy self-identifies as a “country girl,” despite having grown up just outside of a major northeastern city. I’m sure you know the type. She’s attracted to guys who drive trucks, attends country music concerts, wears cowboy boots that have never seen a speck of dirt, rides quads, etc.
She’s also pretty fucking hot (save for some fucked up teeth), as dumb as a box of rocks, and a bit of a slut as I’ve come to learn.
Our age and personality differences left us little to talk about when we started working together, so we’d usually default to, “I was so drunk” stories. After a few of these exchanges, it seemed that Missy’s stories always seemed to end up with, “I got drunk and ended up on a strange dick.”