I list all my aches. I daydream about pregnant chicks.

My liver is dying again. I took the brightest green shit of my life today. Christmas tree green.

I'd go to the doctor, but I worry that they will discover something wrong with me, and then I will be stuck in this cashiering job for the rest of my life, because once you get diagnosed with a disease you can't change jobs and get health care.

Me legs are cramping out on me. My feet hurt and of course my back is going out. I make it through the day by swallowing ibuprofen and guzzling soda. If I have enough caffeine I can get through anything even the liver damage that ibuprofen causes. Of course ibuprofen and soda cause my acid reflux to act up and so I have to take Pepcid Complete to block all the unwanted acid. I am sure Pepcid causes liver disease too.

My bowel movement was almost magical. It was so green. I would have thought it beautiful. If it was not full of cancer.

I notice all of you are pregnant.

Yesterday the store was full of pregnant women. Most are attractive young women with "starter" baby bumps. I seen these girls come in the store for two years now. Sometimes they flirt with me. They always smile at me when I hand them their receipt. Today I noticed how a third of them have gotten knocked up.

First time pregnant women are a hoot. They walk around the giant refrigerators with a mocking smile. They stare out at space and seem lost. Absent minded they rub their growing bellies. They look for reassurance everywhere.

I live in the ghetto so none of the women are married. Most of the girls have boyfriends they would have broken up with 5 months ago, but now they have to cling to the idea that they found the right guy.

The boyfriends tend to push the grocery carts without enthusiasm. One wants to buy frozen pizzas. Another tries to use food stamps to buy energy drinks and 40 ounce beer in tall aluminum cans.

Mostly the boyfriends feel trapped. They are mice caught nibbling cheese. Now they are wondering if the cat is on her way. They are wondering if it is better to gnaw off their tails than to wait for the agonizing death that stalks them.

So many of the pregnant girls are college girls. Going to ASU. Getting drunk and fucking all the boys they want.

One sweet girl is buying a pretty pink bottle of vodka. Her belly pops out of her tank top shirt. She is wearing booty shorts from the 1970's. The shorts have purple lined stitching. It almost looks like she only has a pot belly from drinking. But her belly is hard. Her hair is soft and oily.

I know the signs.

I wonder if she knows she can't drink anymore? I bet she is in the horny stage of pregnancy. I think she is buying the vodka for a cookout. She is probably enjoying staying at home with her live-in- boyfriend who decided not to go back to Pennsylvania for the summer. They rented a house with a pool and a few roommates from Marketing class.

The boyfriend drinks at home and grills steaks and the little girl is enjoying this playtime of domesticity. She still hasn't told her parents and they still live off of his dad's credit cards.

The girl wears a lot of make up but does not look slutty. She just looks happy and you wonder about her sanity. In a few months the dreariness of being pregnant will come at her. Her boyfriend will look for an apartment "closer to school" and I will see her in line at the food stamp office.

I will offer her a listen to my i-pod on the bus ride back to the ghetto. I bought a headphone splitter just for the occasion. She puts on the headphones just to drown out the chattering and crying of her baby for a minute.

She hates my music, but she thanks me anyway. She is a people pleaser. She makes funny faces at her baby. She gives me a look out of the corner of her eye. Waiting to see my reaction. If I pass her test she will talk to me more. Maybe ask me about my life.

The summer day is hot and we both stir around trying to get unstuck from the plastic seats. Every time the bus door opens we get a heat blast from the furnace outside. The bus rolls back and forth and knocks down the stroller she is carrying. I bend down to pick it up and she thanks me as I pop one headphone out of my ear just in time to hear her say "anks."

"Your welcome." I mouth to her as she fusses with her child. Trying to situate him on her lap.

A computerized voice announces my stop. I pull the wire to let the driver know to slow down. I hop off the bus and give one look back. The girl looks tired, but not beat down. She has stacks of W.I.C. checks pushing out of a dirty manila folder. Her flip flops barely touch the floor of the bus, and she waves at me underneath a nursing blanket that doubles as a sun shield.

I wave back at her. And hop off the bus.