You get home soon enough.

Walking into the kitchen you realize that a post-it is missing. The one on top of your pill schedule, which, by the way, is missing too. It takes you seconds to check your purse and realize the whole reserve is gone.

Fucking Brad.

Well, that's that. You have an emergency morning-after pill stash, and you use it before anything else. It's a bit short in the tooth, you're supposed to use it earlier, but you hardly have a choice, and you're not just going to sink to your knees and pray to God like a marshmallow. A girl has her pride.

You're not going to stop there, though. Your mother's into plants lately. Herbal tea, essential oils, Ayurveda and all that. You're not deaf, and your memory is top notch. Abortifacients are a dangerous game to play, but you reckon that you really don't want to pay the price for Brad's games, and making sure you're not pregnant is definitely a good plan. Then, of course, you're going to need another one of those. Plans. Because you've had it. Wimps, assholes and bitches? Why does a woman have to do everything herself if things are to be done properly?