A/N: All I can say is that I am back.
Dangerously In Love
Disclaimer: I do NOT own Rugrats or any of its affiliates. All is owned by their respectable owners. I am just using them for creative purposes and the abuse of my slightly unorthodox imagination. This IS an ADULT piece of literature that should not be read by anyone under the age of 16. There WILL be disturbing scenes as well as suggestive language. Reader discretion is advised.
Charlotte is at it again, fucking any man in sight since her and Drew's divorce. Christ, it's been almost four years and you'd think she would have stopped hoeing herself around like a horny teenage girl and found herself a new man by now. She thinks I don't know what she does in the late hours of the night all over town but I do. Shit, I do. Wish I didn't though. I sometimes wish I was my naïve ten year old self again, oblivious to the world and to all the fucked up shit that happens around me. When you're ten, debt and bankruptcy sounded like terms used in a long ass game of monopoly, as part of the rules you always tuned out because it was just ridiculously boring. When you're ten, bottles of tequila and packs of cigarettes seemed exotic and foreign; something you know you should never touch but always pretend you did because it made you look 'cool' when you told the kids in your class you fake smoked a cigarette to see if you resembled the badass Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. When you're ten, daddy having an affair with some lady from work was something unheard of, if not completely unimaginable. At ten, I had no clue as to what the hell an affair was. I thought it was something along the lines of a business meeting with another woman or daddy making a new friend and inviting her to an occasional dinner- since that is what friends do. At ten, you are under the impression that "Mommy and daddy love each other very much and although they often times disagree, it was never anything to worry my little princess head over." At ten, you don't want to find out that your house is being foreclosed on, your parents are filing for bankruptcy to avoid losing everything due to the bullshit economy, or that your father has been messing around with some Swedish woman for the past five years and even had the audacity not to use protection throughout their scandalous rendezvous. What really led to the divorce was the birth of my sister, Paris-Marie Pickles. Charloette was livid when Drew told her about his 'situation'. One thing led to another and there you have it; my father now living uptown with that Swedish whore and his 'pride and joy' of a daughter that he faithfully odes to on MakeBook daily, my mother an up and coming alcoholic/sex-fiend, me and my mother living in some average three-bedroom townhome next to some noisy loud ass neighbors with seven kids, and lastly, you have me, slightly…delicately-situated Angelica right now. See, I solely talked about my parents to see if anyone is still out there giving two fucks right now.
Now that I know I have your attention, we can get to the main attraction: Me, an alcoholic, clinically diagnosed depressed, sex-addicted Angelica Pickles. This is not a cliché episode of Degrassi or a rerun of True Life, this is real shit and to make matters worse, no one knows about this but me. None of my friends, family, or even my boyfriend of six years knows my situation. When I am drunk, he thinks I am too deprived of sleep to the point where I slur my words and unable to keep my balance. When I pop my anti-depressants, he thinks I am taking a Midol, an Advil, or some generic store bought multivitamin meant to boost my metabolism or something. When I crave sex and masturbate fifteen times a day just to avoid cheating on my beloved like my ass of a father did with my mother, he thinks I have a weak bladder and have a medical requirement to use the restroom numerous times a day to avoid any unintended mishaps. Yes, he is a bit naïve but part of me knows he knows.
You see, Charles 'Chuckie' Finster is not stupid. We're talking about a man that was accepted into Princeton, Harvard, and Yale- three badass schools that only accept the elite of the elite. We're talking about a man that is majoring in biochemical engineering as well as Mathematics. We're talking about a man that had a four-page spread in some nationally acclaimed nerd magazine for discovering evidence debunking the 'Big Bang Theory'. So yes, part of me knows he knows I am a bit fucked up, part of me knows he does not know the entire story and that alone keeps him from seeing the obvious. I want to tell him and get this weight lifted off my shoulders but something inside of me won't allow it. Maybe because I am scared to tell him I am practically killing myself with my weapon of choice because drowning out my troubles and woes with Bacardi and Vodka seemed like the easiest option- as well as the most available. Maybe because I don't want to tell him I have to force myself to smile around him when I really feel like crying inside. Or maybe it is because I am afraid to tell him how many penises I have sucked within the past six months to get my sexual fix because I refuse to cheat on him any other way. But I think the real reason I refuse to tell him is because for the first time in my life, I am afraid of someone truly leaving me. Given I had lots of love from my mother and father growing up as a child, but they were never home and when they were, they were always busy. We lived in an overly extravagant home with six bedrooms, four baths, a dining room, living room, foyer, two balconies, a parlor, and other unnecessary rooms for unnecessary things but rarely saw each other. It was as if I were living with strangers. When they felt like they were neglecting me, they bought me shit I did not need. I owned my first Louis Vutton at age six. I sported Tiffany diamonds at age seven. Saw the Chanel spring collection in Paris at age eight. So forth and so on. My parents loved me, but at the same time, they didn't know me. My mother doesn't even know my favorite flavor of ice-cream while my father still thinks I carry around a damn Cynthia doll (that's secret however).
Chuckie, on the other hand, knows me better than I know myself. He knows my favorite flowers are daisies. He knows my favorite ice-cream flavor is mint chocolate. Knows my favorite movie is Harry Potter. He knows I only eat the blue and yellow M&M's. He knows I snore so loud to the point where he has to wear earplugs every now and then. He knows I am claustrophobic. H knows I am slightly addicted to cream soda. He knows I have a birth mark on my inner-thigh the shape of Louisiana. He Knows I can only move my left ear. He knows I can only move my pinkie toe on each foot. He knows my favorite food of all time is mashed potatoes and gravy. He knows EVERYTHING about me, but yet, I feel if I give him this last piece of the puzzle to who I am as a whole, it will scare him away at what the entire image ends up to be and leave me with absolutely nothing. His girlfriend of six years cannot be a sex-addicted depressed alcoholic. He deserves so much better than that. He deserves so much better than me, but for some strange ass reason he chose to fall in love with me, Angelica Charloette Pickles. I don't know why but he loves me, but in a strange way, he can never love all of me as long as I keep my secret life away from him. Eventually he'll find out. Eventually he'll know I'm not as 'perfect' as I seem. Eventually, our worlds will collide for either better or worse. Eventually he'll find out he is dangerously in love.