Meghan Quinn

“How can you possibly be scrolling through Facebook right now, knowing we’re bound to be homeless in a few weeks?”
“Alcohol,” Dakota says, bringing a pink plastic cup up to her mouth and draining its contents.

“Do you think I should add anything?” I whisper from the side of my mouth.
“Huh? Oh, uh . . .” She taps her chin. “Maybe something about His hair.”
“I don’t know what God’s hair looks like. Do you?”
“Uh . . . white and flowy?”
I look up toward the cracked ceiling. “And your hair is . . . magnificent. Do you use Herbal Essences?”
“I don’t think He needs to shower,” Dakota says, clicking on a picture of Anita’s baby to get a better look. “And He sure as shit isn’t using Herbal Essences.”
“Why the hell not?” I ask, sitting up and staring down at my friend.
“Because He’s God. Why use Herbal Essences when He created Paul Mitchell?”
Valid.

“Now, you just lie here while I order the cake, and we can try to figure out how to handle all of this. Don’t worry—we’ll keep this mental crisis to ourselves.”
“I’m not having a mental crisis.”
“Oh, honey.” I wince. “That’s what everyone says when they’re going through a mental crisis.”

Cake consumed today: None, and frankly, I don’t think I can function properly.

Days since last male-induced orgasm: Seventy, and I wiped a cobweb from my lady area this morning.

My beautiful best friend who thought of this brilliant idea—traveling across the world to sell coffee to strangers—forgot one minor detail: she suffers from horrible motion sickness. She spent our entire flight with her head in a bag while I rubbed her back and prayed to Jesus she wouldn’t throw up on my leg.

Roundabouts stuck in: One . . . for ten minutes.
Number of times Dakota has thrown up: Not enough fingers to count.
Number of Scotsman interactions: One, and I’m still trying to figure out what he was trying to say to us.
If a Scotsman taps his crotch, he might just be trying to tell you that boaby means “penis,” not that he wants sexual payment for his kind favor.

“‘Boaby Stone’ has a much better ring to it than ‘Penis Stone.’ Almost sounds like it’s a lucky rock or something, and if you rub your cheek on it, you’ll be granted good luck for years to come.”
“You’re referring to the Blarney Stone, and that’s if you kiss it,” Dakota says, buckling up and holding on to the rope, which has now permanently indented our palms. “If you kissed this stone, you might get herpes.”

I suggest you leave before I put this broom to good use.”
“Ya going to sweep me away? I’d like to see ya try with those scrawny arms.”
Well, isn’t he terribly unpleasant.
“Don’t be too quick to judge. I pack a heavy punch. I could blow you right out of your shoes.” I raise my fist in the air, but I quickly retract it when I notice it’s shaking slightly.

“A Scotsman saw me in my towel yesterday and was unfazed when I pushed him with a broom. There is something fishy about the people out here.”
“He’s probably thinking the same about Americans, since you tried to defend yourself with a broom.”
“That’s not being weird—that’s being innovative.”