All Chapters of Never go to a tattoo artist if bad luck is following you: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

I swing open the wooden door leading to the kitchen, grab one of the chairs around the table, and turn it to sit astride it. I look up to meet my parents' gaze, which was already fixed on me. "I need money," I start.My father raises an eyebrow. "How much?"I look at him. This is the moment he's going to kill me. "A little money..." I take a moment while he waits for my answer. "Something like a hundred or two hundred-"My father interrupts immediately with, "I'm broke." He returns to reading the newspaper he had left on the table during my entrance.My mother hasn't said a word yet. She continues to stare at me, and I must admit it's becoming unsettling. "Did you get yourself into trouble with some drug dealer and owe them money?" she asks.I roll my eyes. "No, but-"Before I can finish, she interrupts me. "Are you in trouble in general?""No m-" I'm interrupted again."Are you risking your life if we don't give you this money?" she continues.Oh God, this conversation will never end

A deafening sound interrupts my beautiful dream. It takes me a moment to realize that the sound is coming from that infernal contraption more commonly known as an alarm clock.I want to throw it against the wall, but my mother would do the same to me, and that idea doesn't thrill me at all.I turn off the alarm and roll over, hoping to fall back asleep. Then I remember what day it is.Shit, today is Monday. It's my first day at work.I jump out of bed and grab some clothes at random from the chair, which has become my new wardrobe.I just hope the shirt isn't dirty.I dash down the stairs and head to the kitchen to grab something to eat. I see my mom already sitting at the table with a cup of coffee in her hands."Why didn't you wake me up earlier knowing I start work today?" I ask her.She looks at me and raises an eyebrow perfectly drawn with an eyebrow pencil.It's my mom, and she does her makeup better than I do, damn it."You said you were becoming responsible, Brianna. So it's a

Today is my second day of work, a job I've been looking forward to.After last night's "incident" with the heels, Carly and I ended up heading home because of the storm that rolled in. Nothing new, just my bad luck reminding me who runs my life. Convincing her to postpone our night of drinking until we mistook street lamps for celebrities, taking selfies with them, and posting them all over our social media with the caption "OMG, I finally met a star, so excited!"—only to be mocked for eternity—was a challenge.Basically, it was going to be a fantastic evening.We spent the rest of the night watching Pretty Little Liars and gaining at least ten pounds from all the junk food we devoured together.I grab one of my completed sketchbooks and put it in my bag. I don't have a preferred subject or style; my sketchbooks contain drawings of animals, landscapes, portraits of people, abstract subjects, plants. Watercolors, charcoal, and pencils alternate. Everything that inspires me ends up in o

"Cookie and coconut.""I don't like coconut. Choose another flavor," James tells me."Who's eating the ice cream?" I reply."But I have to taste it.""I don't like the cream flavor you chose, yet I'm not complaining. It looks like I'll just eat the other flavor. Would you change one of your flavors just because I don't like it?""No.""There you go.""Why coconut, though?""Because it's my favorite flavor.""Terrible flavors."

If there's one thing I love about Sunday lunch, it's my mom's lasagna. Every Sunday, like a damn tradition.Sure, it's delicious, and she cooks well, but after eating it every week, you eventually can't even look at it without losing your appetite.My mom seems to get high on cocaine and hallucinogens every Sunday.She has this obsession with inviting different relatives for lunch each time, and because of this, she's incredibly hyper. Today, she's even more so because she decided to invite all her siblings and my dad's siblings, and all four grandparents, to announce the news of the upcoming baby.Some lunches only happen at Christmas and Easter, and we're such a dysfunctional family that they usually end in disast