Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I blink. “Wow. High praise.”
“I mean, not everyone can go viral just by being… you know, relatable. That whole ‘average-girl authenticity’ thing you do—people eat it up.”
Fantastic. Somewhere between desperate and marketable.
I never planned on becoming an influencer. Teaching has always been my passion, and the TikTok thing was an accident—a single viral rant after a truly terrible date. I’d filmed myself in sweatpants, eating cold leftover pizza and venting about a guy who asked if I “identified as emotionally available.”
It blew up overnight and I was praised for my self-deprecating humor and the real talk that women were afraid to have. So, I made another video that went viral, and then another, and suddenly, I was a heroine for embracing normality.
I’m known as @WinnieTheNotWild and have about seven hundred thousand followers on TikTok and another couple hundred thousand on Instagram. My niche is basically average girl lifestyle with relatable humor and cozy content, or as I like to call it… humble dating realism.
Who knew that you could make a living off this stuff? I earn around ten grand a month, depending on brand campaigns, affiliate clicks and how funny my videos are. It’s enough to live on, but I’ll never give up teaching kindergarten because I love it—and well, because five-year-olds don’t care about algorithms. They are pure of heart.
It started with one video about the hellscape that is online dating, but people stuck around for the cozy normalcy of my life. Now I get paid to drink tea on camera while I talk to my pet rabbit, Buttermilk, about the facts of life while we hawk lip balm, homemade granola and soft girl sweaters.
And they pay me to do it!
My phone buzzes in my purse, and I nearly kiss it in gratitude.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and Jason looks completely put out that my gaze dares to leave his. I glance at the text and see it’s only from my brother and non-urgent, but I latch onto the lifeline of the timely text.
I frown hard at the screen. “Oh, shoot. There’s a parent situation and I’m afraid I have to go.” I glance up and try to look sad at the situation, but I know I’m not quite pulling it off. “Such a shame.”
He tilts his head. “Aren’t you off tomorrow?”
“Actually,” I say, my brain scrambling for something that sounds legit, “I do have to work.”
“Kindergarten’s open on the weekend?”
“No, but we’re redecorating for spring,” I say lamely as I stand from the table and heft my purse over my shoulder. It’s a Chanel, one of the few luxuries I’ve bought for myself since I started earning far more than I could ever hope to earn as a teacher. “You know how it is. Got to keep the kids visually stimulated. Nothing like papier mâché flowers to open the mind.”
Jason stands politely, confusion still etched on his face, but I wave him off with a tight smile. “No, please… stay and finish this lovely meal. I’m really sorry I have to go.”
Before he can reply, I hastily pull out some cash and set it on the table. “It’s the least I can do since I have to cut this short,” I say, not daring to look back. I bolt.
I envision that he’s following me out of the restaurant… on the hunt to convince me to go on a second date.
I’d rather eat slugs.
Dipped in ghost pepper sauce.
While listening to nails scratch down a chalkboard.
I pick up the pace. The night air is brisk, and the door shuts behind me with no Jason. “Thank you, baby Jesus,” I say, offering up the gratitude.
A light drizzle dots my coat and curls the ends of my hair as I walk through the parking lot. I slide into my car, shut the door and let my forehead fall against the steering wheel.
Then I scream. Just once. Loud enough to fog the windshield.
“Why,” I mutter to myself, “do I keep doing this?”
It’s not that I’m expecting magic. I’m not a twenty-year-old romantic. But is a little basic respect and emotional maturity too much to ask? Just once, I’d like to go on a date where the guy asks me a single question about myself that isn’t “So, do you make real money doing that TikTok stuff?”
By the time I get home, my headache has bloomed into a full-on tension migraine. I pull into my narrow driveway on the fringe of Squirrel Hill. It isn’t anything fancy—just a squat, sun-faded Craftsman with a crooked mailbox and a porch swing that creaks when it’s windy. The siding could use a fresh coat of paint, which is next on my project list. The walkway is uneven thanks to the roots of a stubborn old oak tree out front. Cozy, quiet, tucked just far enough from the buzz of the city to feel like a sanctuary. In the spring, the wildflowers I never planted still find a way to bloom even if the flowers I actually plant struggle, which now that I think about it, seems to be a metaphor for my life.