Fucker and the Bitch
By Stephanie Kemp
February 17, 2026
3:21pm
I am at the library for the second time today, this time in the travel section. (The first time I forgot my computer and my notebook and my glasses and my pen. Plus, I had a stomach ache. I was in the children’s nook.)
I need to write something (anything/a million things) down.
(Atmospheric Rivers, A/nother Teenage Breakup, Please God Let Them Find Her Mom, A Pair of Blown Out Backs From a Day of Unfortunate House Cleaning, The Shredding of Character, My Cousin, My Cousin, The Day that Cooking Saved Me, I See You Too, Yogananda, Careening Toward Digital Bankruptcy, What Will Happen to the Children, Sleeping in an Alternate Bed, PIE)
But I can’t write anything until I write this:
“Fucker and the Bitch.”
(Happy Tuesday.)
This is how my day started:
I went to pull my car out of the garage only to see that a U-Haul truck was blocking my side of the driveway.
After five years of almost non-stop construction on our space challenged tiny little cul-de-sac, my blood boiled...(especially because there was enough space in front of the U-Haul that the truck didn’t have to block me).
And.
The driver was sitting behind the wheel, ignoring my request for him to pull forward.
“Excuse me, EXCUSE ME! Can you pull up a few feet? You’re blocking me in.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?!”
He looks like he could be friends with my daughters, I thought to myself hoping he wasn’t, because I wanted to kill him.
Glare.
Stare.
Dare.
Cut to:
Me…………….(still) Glaring.
“I have to wait for the trash truck to pass, I’m not going to move…………you bitch.”
My blood now splattered inside my brain as I imagined sucking it into my mouth like spit and then shooting it out all over the U-Haul and/or, preferably, its driver.
“Are you kidding me, you Fucker?” (This as I’m only wearing socks and hoping my synthetic hair doesn’t get wet.)
It escalated from there:
(“FuckerFuckerBitchBitchFuckingFuckerBitch!”) until I realized he was just a kid trying to do his job on a shitty rainy morning in a crazy world and he realized I was just some lady trying to pull out of her driveway to go to the doctor in the same crazy world.
What the fuck is actually happening? seemed to ask our newly convened Vulcan Mind Meld.
“This is so…......mean...” I heard my mouth say (not sure if I was trying not to cry or wanting to cry my eyes out).
“You really don’t seem like a fucker.”
(He was actually adorable.)
“You don’t seem like a bitch.”
(I can sometimes be adorable.)
“I’m sorry.”
"No, I’m sorry.”
This was not supposed to be how this morning - or any morning - was meant to go.
“You seem……………nice.”
"So do you.”
“I’m Jennifer.”*
“I’m Derek.”**
“I wish I had cookies or something to give you so you could have a better day.”
"Me too!”
“I have homemade pie?!”
“I love pie!”
“How many pieces do you need?”
“Maybe just one for me and one for my partner? We didn’t have breakfast.”
“Where will you be?"
"Down there…….(Once the trash truck passes).”
“Hahahahahahaha!”
“Hahahahahahaha!”
I ran inside to cut the buttermilk pie, happy to find some plastic forks and paper plates left over from our daughters’ childhoods.
“I actually want to give you a hug,” he said (now standing outside of his truck), as I handed him the pie, noticing that his partner (also) looked nice and had a nice smile.
“Me too,” I said, hugging him back while still trying to decide what to do about crying.
I wish they were friends with my daughters……
“Don’t be late for the doctor!”
“I won’t…..Don’t skip breakfast!”
“I won’t…….and don’t forget to put on shoes!”
We said goodbye.
I wished the pie was warm.
At least I made it and meant it from scratch. I knew someone would need it.
Because we are (all) trying not to be assholes.
***Names have been changed, to protect the best in us while making space for the other guy(s).
![]()
3:21pm
I am at the library for the second time today, this time in the travel section. (The first time I forgot my computer and my notebook and my glasses and my pen. Plus, I had a stomach ache. I was in the children’s nook.)
I need to write something (anything/a million things) down.
(Atmospheric Rivers, A/nother Teenage Breakup, Please God Let Them Find Her Mom, A Pair of Blown Out Backs From a Day of Unfortunate House Cleaning, The Shredding of Character, My Cousin, My Cousin, The Day that Cooking Saved Me, I See You Too, Yogananda, Careening Toward Digital Bankruptcy, What Will Happen to the Children, Sleeping in an Alternate Bed, PIE)
But I can’t write anything until I write this:
“Fucker and the Bitch.”
(Happy Tuesday.)
This is how my day started:
I went to pull my car out of the garage only to see that a U-Haul truck was blocking my side of the driveway.
After five years of almost non-stop construction on our space challenged tiny little cul-de-sac, my blood boiled...(especially because there was enough space in front of the U-Haul that the truck didn’t have to block me).
And.
The driver was sitting behind the wheel, ignoring my request for him to pull forward.
“Excuse me, EXCUSE ME! Can you pull up a few feet? You’re blocking me in.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?!”
He looks like he could be friends with my daughters, I thought to myself hoping he wasn’t, because I wanted to kill him.
Glare.
Stare.
Dare.
Cut to:
Me…………….(still) Glaring.
“I have to wait for the trash truck to pass, I’m not going to move…………you bitch.”
My blood now splattered inside my brain as I imagined sucking it into my mouth like spit and then shooting it out all over the U-Haul and/or, preferably, its driver.
“Are you kidding me, you Fucker?” (This as I’m only wearing socks and hoping my synthetic hair doesn’t get wet.)
It escalated from there:
(“FuckerFuckerBitchBitchFuckingFuckerBitch!”) until I realized he was just a kid trying to do his job on a shitty rainy morning in a crazy world and he realized I was just some lady trying to pull out of her driveway to go to the doctor in the same crazy world.
What the fuck is actually happening? seemed to ask our newly convened Vulcan Mind Meld.
“This is so…......mean...” I heard my mouth say (not sure if I was trying not to cry or wanting to cry my eyes out).
“You really don’t seem like a fucker.”
(He was actually adorable.)
“You don’t seem like a bitch.”
(I can sometimes be adorable.)
“I’m sorry.”
"No, I’m sorry.”
This was not supposed to be how this morning - or any morning - was meant to go.
“You seem……………nice.”
"So do you.”
“I’m Jennifer.”*
“I’m Derek.”**
“I wish I had cookies or something to give you so you could have a better day.”
"Me too!”
“I have homemade pie?!”
“I love pie!”
“How many pieces do you need?”
“Maybe just one for me and one for my partner? We didn’t have breakfast.”
“Where will you be?"
"Down there…….(Once the trash truck passes).”
“Hahahahahahaha!”
“Hahahahahahaha!”
I ran inside to cut the buttermilk pie, happy to find some plastic forks and paper plates left over from our daughters’ childhoods.
“I actually want to give you a hug,” he said (now standing outside of his truck), as I handed him the pie, noticing that his partner (also) looked nice and had a nice smile.
“Me too,” I said, hugging him back while still trying to decide what to do about crying.
I wish they were friends with my daughters……
“Don’t be late for the doctor!”
“I won’t…..Don’t skip breakfast!”
“I won’t…….and don’t forget to put on shoes!”
We said goodbye.
I wished the pie was warm.
At least I made it and meant it from scratch. I knew someone would need it.
Because we are (all) trying not to be assholes.
***Names have been changed, to protect the best in us while making space for the other guy(s).
